Until the Last Moment
August 29, 1999 - Race Day
Rain?
Rain
in the South Okanagan?
The
alarm hadn't gone off, and now it wouldn't need to.
Mike
Kelly's Dad had said this never happens, although anyone who'd raced here in
1997 would laugh at that thought now.
4:01am.
I was staring off the balcony slowly reconciling why the deck was wet, why the
reflections of the torches the puddles below
were blinking at me, and facing the prospect of racing an Ironman in the
rain. Sipping my coffee, I knew I'd
just have to shut up and deal. "At least Art might get his wish today..."
Thinking back to his hopes for a cool rain from his IMC '98 report.
"Dammit...you had this in New Zealand already." I thought,
though fully realizing that this wasn't anyone's fault...I was just mighty
cranky at the prospect of dealing with a clammy chamois for 6 hours.
Lynda
looked outside and asked me "How can it rain here?"
I
didn't know, and I didn't care. I
just wanted it to stop. Now.
After
a Peanut Butter bagel and some coffee, I knocked on Jason's door at 5:00am
sharp. Normally ebullient, Jason
was all business this morning, and his face let me know he was as thrilled about
the rain as I was. Mike Kelly was
following suit, his eyes ready to jump out of his head and hide so they wouldn't
need to look at the sky anymore. We
marched down to check-in and body marking early so we could avoid the rush and
hide from the rain as long as possible.
Good
News: The rain had slowed to a light drizzle
when we got down there.
Bad
News: The Lightning and Thunder started instead.
I
tried to smile things off while getting marked, and so did Mike,
but each clap of thunder overhead made everyone flinch, and started a quiet wave
of obscenities through the transition area.
It was not the happy start I was looking for, but at least it was
dramatic.
Once
numbered I checked in my special needs bags, filled the bottles on Apollo,
checked the tires for 11 times, and then headed back upstairs.
The entire drill had taken 14 minutes, and like last year I had nothing
to do but wait. While we had all
moved through our respective routines, I got separated from Jason and Mike.
While I felt bad that I might not get a chance to see them before the
start, I knew that perhaps it was for the best.
Some people like to talk before starts; Some like to keep to themselves.
Today, I was feeling as dark as the weather...and I scurried back to the
hotel to hide and wait in silence.
Back
at the room, Lynda and I watched the lightning for a bit (including one strike
that would start a forest fire that would last for 2 days), while I tried to
close my eyes and nap. The occasional rumble made sure I never nodded all the
way off, and I mostly just laid there quietly...willing the noise to stop, and
the skies to clear.
At
6:30, it was time to go. I put a
piece of electrical tape over my watch, and left the comfort and shelter of the
room behind.
Lynda
walked down to the gate with me, and she pointed up and said "Look,
there...it's going to clear for you guys."
The clouds were moving very quickly now from West to East...and you could
see the faint streaks of blue sky that would be over us in about 20
minutes...right before the swim start. I had already prepped myself for 12 hours
in the rain...and now anything else was going to be luxury. I couldn't help but
grin a bit as I kissed Lynda goodbye for the last time, and headed for the swim
corral.
While
hopping into my wetsuit I managed to find Steve Wyle, Mike Kelly, Cary, Eric (my
evil Nemesis), and wished them all well...except for Eric, whom I wished a
meteor strike, wetsuit unzip, and a bell-bottom jeans accident during the run.
Smiles were poking out a bit more now, even if they were a bit shaky.
Even if the weather was turning for the better...the 140.6 miles before
us wouldn't be any shorter.
As
I stood on the left side of the corral, I just soaked in the spectacle that I
was now a part of. The last few
moments before the gun were as electric as could be.
O'Canada. Bagpipes.
1770 different visions of the day: Some
dreaming of Kona. Some dreaming of
a time on the clock; Some simply
praying to finish. All aware that
this day would be following its own script that didn't really care what you
wanted...but that's part of the gamble you sign up for and accept.
Knowing
that the cannon would soon set my nervous mind free, I looked to the sky and
reached out to an old, lost friend: "Hey
Grandpa? Wanna' come do an Ironman
with me? Let's go."
*BOOM*
Okay,
here we go...run, run, run, dolphin, glide, dolphin, glide...swim!
*SMASH* Ow!
Sweet Jesus! 10 yards into my swim and I've been kicked in the head
already. I thought the left side of
the course was supposed *THUD* to be *WHAM* calmer! Argh! It's just
the start...and already I'm in full Maytag mode.
I'm trying to stay clear of the lay-line along the buoys, but my plan
isn't working at all. The people to
my left are pushing over to the right, and I can't find any space at all to stay
clear. Like a lemming headed to a
cliff, I'm only 10 feet from the first buoy when we get there.
The
next 1600 meters are complete chaos. If
I'm not trying to avoid arms and legs, I'm being swam over by people trying to
escape the same crush that I am. There's
no reason for it...just a lot of bodies in a small space.
I keep telling myself that eventually, it'll thin out...but it can't come
quickly enough.
Halfway
out to the houseboat, someone catches my left wrist...and I feel something pull
and snap. As I roll to my left,
some poor fool's watch lazily drifts by my face...and I quickly realize that I'm
that fool! I grab the watch and
shove the strap down my wetsuit collar. It may seem silly to have even worn the
thing since I wasn't using it for time...but I'd need it to remind me when to
eat during the ride. I'd set the
countdown timer for every 30 minutes...and without that I know I'd get forgetful
out there and earn a one-way ticket to Bonk City on the run. I'm here in the
swim, and there's still a long way to go...and I'm more tired from the beating
than I am the swimming. How long
can this go on?
Making
the turn now, the people on the houseboat are running around, cheering, and
pounding the sides of the boat like mad. I
can't help it...I wave to one of the guys on deck, and smile at him as I take a
quick breath...and his reaction is priceless!
I can hear him despite all the thrashing around me, pointing and yelling
"Hey Dude! Looking Good! Go! Go! Go!". *THWACK!*
My playful interlude suddenly ends when 2 bodies from opposite sides
suddenly converge violently in front of me.
I clasp my hands in front to protect my head, and kick my way around the
turn while trying to stay calm. I
can feel that my tolerance of this abuse is getting short.
It has to get easier soon. It
has to get easier...
Another
hit...another kick. Whenever anyone
gets nailed during the swim, there's a brief moment where you just want to hit
back, but you temper that urge since 99 times out of 100 you know damn well that
it isn't on purpose. But here after
50 minutes of pounding and surviving it's getting very hard to keep that polite
rationale.
*THWACK!*
*WHACK!* Let it go.
*THWACK*
Let it go.
*SLAP*
You think Sister Madonna hits back?
Nope. *SMASH* I bet she
prays for strength out here *PUNT*. "Dear
Lord..." *OOF!* "..I know
this goober next to me hasn't meant to hit me in the head 11 times.." *CRONK*
"...12 times...but Lord, grant me the strength to not beat the everliving..."
*WHACK* "...out of him or the other 399 people that have surfed over me
today...." *POING*
All
the way back to shore, each time I get hit...I keep adding to my prayer.
"...And Lord..." *SPOOSH* "...forgive those who have drafted, and
pray for those to have a smooth transition..." *BONK" "...now and
in the hour of my total immersion...A-" *KICK*
When
at last the Lakeside Resort comes into close view and I can see bodies standing
up for the run-out, the crowd finally thins out a bit.
Better late than never, I guess. At
the rocks I stand up bellowing, "AAAAmen!"
I have no idea what my swim split is...and I don't really care.
I'm so happy to not be Bob the Bumper Boat, I almost dance and sing my
way up the beach.
When
I face the wall of strippers (whoo-hoo!), I do a quick scan for Martha-
leftrightleftright- No Martha. Nuts.
I quickly head to the first open trio I see, and just like last year
*pop!* Off comes the wetsuit, a quick dash to the bag racks, and I'm in the
changing tent. Everyone in here
seems to be talking about the swim; "Was that like, the WORST swim you've
ever experienced?"; "I
got kicked so much, I'll never treat my football the same way again!"
On
with the jersey, the shorts, the socks, the shoes, Helmet (Helmut?), fill the
pockets...clip-clop-clip-clop, and out we go!
As
I'm running out to the bike lot, I see him.
Getting sunblock smeared all over his smart-ass grin, my
soon-to-be-retired arch-nemesis: Weiss. How
the #(&% did he swim like that? Maybe
I swam slow? Whatever...he's here. Better
go! (As it turns out, I had a 4
minute lead out of the water, but my leisurely 8 minute towel-off/breakfast
transition compared to his 4 minute grab & go was all the difference).
I ran down the bike lot aisle, grabbed Apollo, and went to merge into the
stampede of bikes...right in front of Eric.
We hit the timing mats together...and as we have been for the past 4
years of this game, we started the ride side-by-cursed-side.
I
waved a quick goodbye to Lynda as we turned the corner to head up Main
Street...and settled into the tunnel of spectators that carry you out of town.
There's nowhere else on Earth quite like it...and soon my HR was up to
155- cruising speed. As we moved
over to the right side of the road...I settled down to my armrests, and finally
relaxed for the first time since the swim start.
Bruce Grant rolls on by the Eric and Bob show and in his Arnold voice
looks over at me and says "You must crush him like a little girly-man,
yah?" Ahhh...this is going to
be quite a day.
Only
136.2 miles to go.
Last
year, I thought it was the AllSport...so this year I only drank Quic Discs and
water before the start. But the same stomach pains I fought off all the way to
Richter Pass are back again...and they've got me worried.
I can't breathe deeply, and I can't eat a thing.
It has to be air swallowing during the full-contact swim that has done
this...the only two times in the world I've raced 2.4 with a mass start I've had
stomach pains. If it happens next
year at Lake Placid, I'll have my answer...but for now, I'll just keep my
breathing shallow...and hope it passes through.
By
the base of Richter Pass, ironically, my worst pains have passed.
It was definitely air swallowing...and while the cure that my body
employed wouldn't get me invited to too many dinner parties, I was definitely
feeling much better.
Turning
up the base at the Husky Station, the first 40 miles of the ride had flown by
both mentally and physically. I had
no idea how fast I was going, and without a clock to look at, I wasn't even
tempted to try and figure it out. I
settled into my rhythm, sat up on the tops...and then I heard the voice:
"Spin, spin, spin, spin...."
It couldn't be...it shouldn't be...but it was.
Weiss
was right on my hip.
I
was impressed, startled, and annoyed all at once.
If he keeps riding like this, how the hell am I going to lose him?
I'm supposed to ride better, and he runs me down.
That's the script. In bike legs, I'm 37-0.
In run legs, he's 37-0. Call
it parity?
"Wow!
What the hell are you doing up here?" I asked.
"I've
been chasing you since McLean Creek Road."
came the reply. Ahh,
Grasshopper...you should know better than to turn large gear so soon.
Road to Richter like sinister woman:
Curves feel good, Road feel fast, and just a bit later, she'll bite you
in the...
"Wow.
Take it easy, man. How's
your stomach?" Turns out that
he was feeling the same way I was, so we'd been fighting the same balloon of air
from the early karate match. "Yeah...I've
been...having...lots of pain...but...I feel better...now...I'll see you
later." Wisely, he started to
drop off and ride his own tempo. "Ride
smart! You look good!" I
told him, and I wasn't lying: He
did. He was sitting up, climbing
with roadie-like form, breathing deeply. I
knew I'd see him on the run...I just wondered when.
Richter
was over before I knew it. I
cruised on up in my 39x23, keeping the HR at 160 all the way.
When I got up to the summit...I couldn't believe I was there, and I was
suddenly bummed: I realized that all of our chalk writing had been washed away
by the overnight rains. I hadn't
seen a thing, and even someone as prone to zoning out on the bike as me would
have picked up a multi-colored roadbed. Bummer.
I crossed over the timing mats for the summit *bleep*, and tucked in for
the E-Ticket ride down to the rollers. Yahoo!
The
wind that reached out and made me feel like I was riding with a parachute pack
in 1998 wasn't there...and I was able to savor every last drop of the plunge
into the valley below. I had no idea what time it was, I had no idea how fast I
was going. I just knew that I
was on the way to the out and back, and that meant I was closing in on
halfway...quickly.
My
stomach was fully settled now, so I was back on my eating schedule: One bottle
of Quic Disc every 30 minutes, and something solid. I had Cleef Bars, Pringles,
Pop-Tarts, and a Bagel to choose from...so whenever the watch went off I reached
back into my jersey for a pot-luck-pocket snack.
I grabbed some cookies from an aid station...I played bottle-toss at the
drop zones. I high fived every
volunteer that I could. I was
savoring the day as much as I could...and knocking the clicks off one after the
other.
Up
a roller, down a roller. You find
yourself in a group one second...then ahead of them the next.
The ups and downs of the course tend to keep you close together, and here
I got to hang with Samuel Barnes for a bit.
He's feeling and looking his usual goofy self, and we chat back and forth
as the rollers accordion the group...stretch 'em ouuuut...bring 'em back.
I'm not sure of his cycling prowess, but he looks like a rocket ship
built for the run. I take a good
look at the rest of our little (non-drafting!) groupetto, and they're all
reed-thin, mack-fit types. Hmmm...I
wonder what kind of ride I'm having...man, I'm so curious!
But I know that I'm better off just sticking to my plan, and I resist the
urge to ask someone how were doing.
Still,
my head is starting to get giddy with thoughts of a possible sub-6 bike...and I
can't stop thinking about it.
The
rollers taper off to their end, and as I cruise along the foreshadowing flats
near Cawston, I start looking for the entrance to the dreaded Out and Back - a
1,492 mile section of the ride that is technically nothing, but will overdraw
your motivational account in a heartbeat. You
have to turn the wrong way, and head back the way you've been coming.
For years. Decades.
The New Year's Baby they put at the turnaround will turn into an old man
by the time you get there...so keeping focused is the only way to escape.
As I make the entrance I breathe out, and focus on my HR monitor.
145.
145. 145. 146. 145. 145. Hey,
that's a Cheetah...that means- *SWOOOSH* The
unmistakable form of women's leader and 2-time defending champion Lori Bowden
goes whistling the other way, and my head whipsaws around in shock. This section is only 45 minutes long, maybe?
I'm less than that behind Lori. Oh...my...God. As I'm trying to make sense of this, the out of place image
of Cher (circa Moonstruck) appears next to me on the road, rides alongside, and
slaps me across the face: *SLAP!* "Don't just coast there with your jaw
open ya' big mook! Snap Out of it!
Pedal! Pedal!"
161.
162. 163. BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP. Whoa,
Trigger. Who you think you are? The
only guy who can catch her is Peter Reid. Knock that #*&$ off right now.
159.
158. 157. 156. This is like
watching grass grow...
149.
148. 147. 146. Ahhh, there we go. Still in a bit of shock, I look one last time back over my
shoulder...and before I get slapped by my imagination again, I turn my focus
forward to the Special Needs pickup at the end of the road.
There
are more riders now heading away from the turn-around, and I'm looking to see
who I can spot. Cary McConologue
whips by, followed by Wade Blomgren, Bruce Grant, Pete Priolo...where's Art? Last year he blew by me early on the bike course, so I know I
should be in his neighborhood...is that the turn? Yes! Already!
I can't get over how fast this day is moving.
74 miles down, 40 to go...but in my head, I know it's only 28.
From the summit of Yellow Lake is a 12 mile downhill...so that's the end
of the hard work for the ride.
I
grab my special needs bag...reload the Quic Disc stash, the Pringles, another
bagel, and a card from Lynda...and another card from Oscar, our cat.
"Dear Dad: You're an Ironman to me! Good Luck! Love,
Oscar. p.s. -- Bring home some salmon, will you?" This would normally make me smile and giggle...but 5 or so
hours into an Ironman? It's the
funniest thing I've ever seen...and I nearly fall off my bike trying to put the
card in my pocket. I'm laughing out
loud, going "Salmon? Bring
home salmon?" As I roll by the
aid station, I'm still chuckling, and the first volunteer I see goes "Did I
hear you say you wanted some salmon, sir?"
BWAHAHAHAHAHAA!
I explode laughing again. I can't
even see straight enough to explain it to him, and I just wave "no" as
I roll out...headed again in the 'right' direction...wondering just what he'd do
if I had said "yes!". Knowing
these volunteers, the guy would probably whip out a fly fishing rod and take off
for the nearest creek. They're that
great.
On
the way back out, I see Mike Kelly grooving and shout the greeting:
"MEN!" Eric Austin is just up the road.
Ray Britt. Mike Randall.
Charlotte. All the jersey's
are flying by...and I can't keep up. Tri-Baby.
Mike Plumb. By the time I
figure out who someone is...they're down the road.
I missed seeing my Evil Twin...and I know Jason is probably still coming.
Where is Kathy Majteka? It's
probably easy to miss her out here on the bike.
I know this is her first IMC...and after 6 flats at Vineman 1997, this is
her day to shine and really enjoy it. Hopefully,
I won't miss her on the run.
Turning
onto Highway 3, I feel the a wave of relief wash over me...the Out and Back is
Done and Gone. On to Yellow
Lake...an insidious climb that lasts for 10 gradual miles...with a final 3 mile
push to the top. Again, I settle
into the rhythm I've been holding all ride, and watch the numbers.
My neck is starting to get tired, and my butt is beginning to ask for
breaks here and there. I must be getting near 90 miles in...but how fast?
Step
up...recover. Step up...recover. Before
I know it...I'm at the final climb. The traffic is stopped to give the cyclists
a full lane to the summit, and now my HRM goes out the window.
People are on either side of me. Cowbells
are clanging. Voices are screaming.
Fives are being...highed? I
attack the gear...abandoning all form and good sense, and the crowd reacts.
The more I stand...the more they scream.
Inevitably, Phil Liggett appears on the scene...and in my head, my climb
now has a soundtrack...
"So
now, on the final cruel slopes of this Yellow Lake climb...the man who has long
loomed in the shadows of others, Bob Mina is now finding the light he has been
chasing for so, so very long. Stamping
the pedals with the authority of a man who knows he's got the race under
control, he's going to make his mark on this climb, today, here and now. Who cares of there's a marathon to run later today!
This man has leapt up, seized the moment, and my goodness me, he's
climbing like I've never seen...and I bet like he's never seen!
A few meters more now...he reaches one final time for the gearshift
lever...and on the big gears now he'll conquer the final summit on this long day
in the saddle...this road has tried, but today there is no doubt...Mina will be
remembered for this move for many, many years to come.
On a stage where big men are not supposed to shine, Mina has proven them
all wrong...as he comes to the line...to take the win!"
The
people end...the cars disappear...and I'm alone over the summit at Twin Lakes.
HR is 181. On principle I toss my arms into the air, and salute to no-one
but the dreams in my head...and zip up for the descent into town.
In a way...I'm sad to see this ride nearly at it's end...but I'm not
foolish enough to think that this race is anything but over.
After
dancing and slashing my way down the long, windy road to Penticton...I'm back on
Main Street, and the crowds are thicker than before.
Near the end of the bike, I now know that no mechanical woes will end my
race. I can walk the marathon from
here...and with that thought I start getting that grin again...dreaming of the
finish, and hoping that it comes in daylight this time.
As
I'm rolling down the last 2 miles on Main Street, I finally cave into my
curiosity and ask someone "What time is it?"
He answers "1:50." Hmm,
lets see...assuming I got on the road at 8:10, that means...I've ridden
a...5:40. A 5:40?
A 5:#(*%#ing:40!? WAHHHHOOOO!
Much
to this guys amusement, I'm now sitting up and pumping my hands in the air all
over again...and this no-handed celebration will last all the way to Lakeshore
drive. I officially ended the ride with a 5:44 split, and as I ran
into the change tent there was nothing that was going to wipe the smile off my
face.
Except,
of course...thinking of that damn marathon.
In
the tent, I managed to jump, jive, and wiggle my way into my DeSoto (Hey, you
feel fast, you go fast...or in my case, you feel like you're going fast....) and
head out in another non-blazing, mezzo-piano 8 minutes.
However, 4 of those minutes were spent trying to gain my composure after
finding the following note in my sneaker:
"Alright
you b*stard...Here it is:
THE
DUEL - 2000
Wildflower
Blackwater
Tupper
Lake
IM-USA
(Yes, I'm already signed up).
IMC
(God I hate you)
-
Eric.
p.s.
- And I hate Markley, too."
For
all his protesting, all his gesturing, all the theatrics...he couldn't escape.
Eric Weiss was back on the wagon, and it was my fault!
How utterly evil of me! BWhahhahahahahahah!
With no small spring in my step...I bounded out of the tent...the Duel
would live on another day!
I
manage to spot Lynda immediately, and Kim is right there with her.
Still giddy about my ride, I give her a kiss hello (blech!
Yeah, yeah, I know...) and dance off, telling Kim that Mike looked good
when I saw him and that she shouldn't worry.
As I left town, I looked down at the chalk art that covered Main Street
from curb to curb, and ran right over the artwork that Mr. Kelly, Kim, and Lynda
had done for Mike and I. I just felt so lucky at that moment, I thought I might
burst. I felt so good...the race
was unfolding well, there was plenty of daylight left, and I wasn't feeling too
slow yet. Okay, okay...so I was 1
mile into the run...but 26 little victories later I'll be done, right?
Miles
2 and 3 are both nice and steady while I climb out of town, HR at about
140...and the first 2 Quic Discs of the day go down easily...no stomach woes.
The sun is out, and for the first time all day, I'm starting to feel hot.
I could sure use a cloud cover right about now...as Mike Plumb pulls up
alongside me in a Tupper Lake Deja Vu. I
look at him, he looks at me, and we both say "No @^#ing way.
Not again." Off he
goes, booming and zooming like the built-for-speed runner that he is.
Just
before Skaha Estates at mile 4, one made-to-order gigantic cloud blows in and
covers the sun. Remembering my
invitation earlier in the day, I look up..."Thanks, Grandpa.
I needed that."
As
I'm cruising along, I hear a voice ask "Is that Bob Mina?", as Art
Hutchinson pulls up alongside. "Art,
what the hell are you doing back here?" I ask. "It's not that I'm
'back here', you're 'up here'. I'm
just running my race, and you're here."
Yikes. We had talked about
this in the weeks leading up to the race...and here I was, having the race of my
life, totally unable to process it. "You're
talking, so that means you're not running hard enough.
Pick it up. Eric is about 5
minutes back." As he trotted
off, I knew he was right. I was
probably running to slowly, but I was too afraid to pick it up and see what I
had. I wanted to finish...and I
wanted to enjoy the trip, and I don't have the confidence in my run that comes
so naturally on the bike.
*plink*
I filed that seed away. This
one gets planted this Fall.
At
mile 5, the men's leader came into sight, and it was Chuckie V.
I had told Lynda that I was hoping he'd get his first win here, and to
see him leading this late gave me hope for him.
"Go on Chuckie...you da' man!!"
I yelled as he passed the other way, running on autopilot. About 1 minute later, I saw why...as Shingo Tani came
hurtling down the road like a runner in a 10K...arms pumping, legs seemingly
longer than he was tall. The chase
was on, and I hoped Chuckie could hold on to the end.
Mile
6...nearly halfway to the turn...and I still feel together.
I'm running to the aid stations, and walking for one minute.
It seems to be making a difference, as I'm catching people that ran out
ahead of me. I try and coax a few
that I've been catching regularly...but they have their plans, and I have mine.
Lori
Bowden comes charging down the road, and I can tell from almost 200 meters that
she's flying. As the motorbike
leading her passes the other way, I stop and bow, calling out "We're not
worthy! We're not worthy!",
much to the amusement of the CTV camera crew.
As I turn to start running again, those little bows have started my
abdominal muscles twitching. Hmmm...maybe
I should stop goofing around now...it's not going to feel this good all day.
Mile
7...Mile 8...Mile 9...watch the HR. No
one is talking anymore.
Time
to just count the miles. Go to the
turn, then go home.
Mile
10. Double digits.
Count the miles. Go to the
turn, then go home.
Mile
11...and I'm starting to see faces now that I know.
Cary
comes cruising down, followed by Wade...on his way to a Kona slot.
When I see Iron Pete, he's having one of those moments...but waves to let
me know "I'm okay!" Bruce
Grant is next into view. Dave
Cotting whistled at me as he laughed and rolled on by.
Mike Plumb, again...followed by Samuel Barnes...
And
then It's my turn. Less than a 1/2
mile to the turnaround...climbing that final #$(% of a hill to the orchards past
Okanagan Falls. I can see the
special needs station has been moved this year, and I grab my bag as I walk up
the hill...less than 200 meters to the turn now.
Some new Quic Discs, another Pop Tart, and the emergency can of Red Bull
I had packed. As I'm trying to
figure out exactly where to store all this stuff...it happens.
"Would
you like a peach?"
Not
exactly 'Dr. Livingston, I presume?' but for Weiss...just as effective.
"No,
Thanks." I tapped the veins on
my arm as if looking for a good one and said "IM's are heroin, brother.
You can't escape...but you sure had me fooled!"
He
smiled back at me and said "God, how I hate you."
What
kept you?" I ask. He has
caught me within sight of the turnaround...so he must have had his woes on the
way out for sure. He's got the same
problem I do: 10 pounds of food
packed at Special Needs...one 2 pound pocket.
I decide that the Red Bull is too heavy to carry, but I don't want to
waste it. I pop open the can, and
take a sip. Eric asks "Umm,
have you ever raced with that stuff before?"
I say, "No, why?"
Precisely
three seconds later, I know why. The
Red Bull hits my stomach with the grace of a Tasmanian Devil following a
highball. I convulsively double over and start coughing.
Eric asks "Are you okay?", and in-between coughs I manage a
"Give me a moment..."
And
with that one moment, my stomach knew what it had to do...and for the second
time this year, I managed to do it without getting a drop on my sneakers.
Since at both Blackwater and now IMC my stomach-clearing episodes had
occurred when he was nearby, I turned to Eric and said "Well, I guess you
just bring out the best in me."
We
buttonhook turned the turnaround together (actually, he let me lead "For
now"), and started on the last 13 miles back to Penticton.
Down,
down, down the hills we ran, and as we did, Eric shared his day so far.
His knee had tightened up, and his stomach refused to settle down.
Between the two, he was essentially a mess.
I asked him "If you want to run ahead, go for it...", but he
just waved his hand and said "No way.
I'm fine with this pace...believe me."
Quietly, I was happy for that. What
the hell...we'd kept each other company on just about every long workout we'd
done all summer, what was one more long run?
Tina Hoeben headed by as we re-passed special needs...and she looked to
be having a decent day, but was as tired as everyone else by now.
Eric seemed to stand up a little straighter for a moment...but I guess it
was just a stitch or something.
As
we neared mile 14, we spotted Tri-Baby running up the hill to the turn.
Quickly. "You boys had
better step on it!" she warned. We
both swiveled our heads wordlessly...watching her motor out of sight.
Eric said "It's not a question of if she can catch us..."
"It's
when." I finished.
Keeping on pace, we chugged down to the aid station at mile 15.
Walk
a minute...start running. Get to
the next aid station. Just short of
mile 15, Ray Britt caught us and headed on.
By now, it was no longer warm. The
wind off Skaha Lake was kicking up right in our faces, and we had to keep
adjusting our hats so they wouldn't get blown away.
Making any kind of tempo was becoming quite a challenge...until Tricia
caught us both. She split between
us, never slowing her cadence or turning her head.
She yelled "I don't know what I'm doing, and I'm scared
shitless." It looked like she
had been taken hostage by her own legs,and she was sentenced to run as fast as
she could until she fell apart or finished.
Watching
Tricia fade around the next corner, I thought back to Art's admonishment
earlier: "You're talking. That
means you're not running hard enough."
If I had taken off, could I have held that pace?
Could I be running to a PR? As
it was, I was already on pace to get a PR by more than an hour...but this moment
had me re-thinking "What if?" Tricia
was clearly having a great day...and seeing her in such a state of shock about
her newly discovered confidence on the run struck a chord with me:
She had found herself way ahead of her expected pace, but taken the
chance to keep it going. I had gotten off the bike after a good ride and found myself
in the same place, but mentally checked out of the game as soon as my feet hit
the road. I didn't believe I could
run well, and therefore, stopped myself from even trying to pick it up.
I
kept thinking, again and again..."What if?"
What if I could run with the confidence that comes so easily on the bike?
If
I could get myself out of my own way, what could stop me then?
Without
knowing it, Art and Tricia were already making a difference for my 3rd
Ironman...a race that was still 11 months in the future.
For
now, I had this race to finish...and Eric and I only had 10 miles to go.
As we plodded on, Eric Austin and Mike Kelly came into view, running
together as they had at Tupper Lake. Neal
Greenwald followed. Jane Fratesi
came next. Eric and I were trying
to keep a checklist between us of the people we had seen.
Once we got to mile 18, only Jason Mayfield and Kathy Majteka remained.
Mile
19...and the wind is getting colder. Jason
came into view, and he looked good. Cowman
was up the road, so poor Jason would now be 0-4 against Mr. A-Moo-Ha in
Penticton. Just Kathy left to go.
We watched, and we waited. Mile
20 came and went...only 10K to go! I
asked my dueling partner "Did you ever think this day could go by so
quickly?" It seemed uncanny, but time was just rushing by now...Rolf
Arands had said that most IM's are over in the blink of an eye, and now I
understood. After 8 months of
preparing, 17 hours can somehow fly by before you know it.
It
had to be near 6:15pm now. 45 minutes past the bike cutoff.
Assuming that Kathy had made the cutoff and could walk a 15 minute mile,
we simply *had* to see her by mile 22, or the we'd be forced to think that the
worst would have to be true. Shortly
before mile 21, we saw a van closely following a walker. With a lump in my throat, I asked, "Are you the
sweep?" The driver looked
over, and knew she was about to deliver bad news:
"Yes. Sorry."
I
felt like I'd been tossed off a cliff. The
clouds got suddenly greyer, and the wind gusted just a little bit colder.
Of all the people that had come to Penticton to find whatever it is
they're looking for, Kathy was the last one I wanted to see fail. It wasn't fair...but I knew that it came with the territory.
Our Humble Hero had fallen out somehow, and I found myself just needing
to be mad for a while. Eric fell silent too, even trying to be positive about
things. "Maybe we missed
her...maybe when we were in a port-o-potty...maybe she was in one..."
It was possible, but my instincts were telling me something else.
From
mile 22 to 23, we didn't say very much. I
cursed a lot. Eric just kept looking down.
We walked the hill up to Skaha Estates.
We drank the vegetable broth the aid stations were serving to keep warm.
As hard as it was, we had to move on.
We focused our anger, and charged up the long, long hill to mile 24...and
then weaved down the chicane back onto Main Street.
2
miles to go. Plenty of daylight
left. I began to let that reality
sink in...and despite the sadness I was feeling for Kathy, I felt my mood moving
towards the business at hand. Maybe 20 minutes left, and most of them would be downhill.
I was at the verge of getting that second Maple Leaf Medal for my
wall...and I was starting to feel it. Eric
was really in a lot of pain with his knee, but he never complained about it.
When we walked, he stretched. He's
not all that emotional on the race course...but I could see that he wanted to
get there as badly as I did. When I
talked to him about how close we were, his eyes never left the Lakeside...even
if it was still a blur nearly a mile and a half down the road.
As
we chugged along, still side by side, we made it to mile 25 and the last aid
station. This was it.
One quick shot of Pepsi for me, one last stretch for his knee.
"You
ready?"
"Lets
go."
"1...2...3.."
ARGH! That first step was
getting to be a killer...but we were rolling again.
The
crowds are growing thicker...and our tempo is rising to meet them.
I could see the faces. I
could see the smiles. I could see
the people waving from balconies above. I
would get my daylight finish, and to be able to see it all for the first time
was a wonderful reward. I turned to
Eric as we were accelerating and say "You know, there's no-one else I would
rather have survived this day with, my friend.
Thanks for sticking it out." Again,
his eyes never left the Lakeside...the autopilot had taken over.
"You too, man. Thanks."
About that time, we passed a CTV motorbike on the side of the road...and
I couldn't resist: "Hey guys,
you want to make us famous?" The
camera guy waved...and we rolled on. About
a 1/2 mile to go now...and it feels like were flying.
"No
holding hands at the finish, right?" I
ask.
"No.
No holding hands." he
replies.
I
just wanted to make it clear so he didn't knock me out cold, and so I don't get
my hand tangled up in his hair.
"Hey
dude. We're here to make you
famous." Suddenly, the
motorbike is right next to us...and we're on camera.
I've never won a race. I'll
probably never win a race. But a
motorbike escort into the finish of an Ironman?
How can you beat that? They
film us from the left. They film us
from the right. We wave to the
crowd, and they go nuts. We high
five people. I ask Eric "Are
you floating yet?" Never
looking away from the Lakeside, he yells out "Oh, Yeah!"
They camera stays with us all the way down to the Hog's Breath...and then
peels off so that we're on our own, again.
As
we started the bike at sunrise, so shall we end the run at sunset.
As
we first crossed at Fairmount so long ago, so shall we cross again today.
We
make the final turn at Lakeshore, and I totally ignore our deal. I grab Eric's
hand, and with no hesitation from his side, we shoot our arms to the sky in
triumph. Today he carried me as
much as I carried him, and we will share the final steps of our journey until
the last moment.
I
don't see the clock, and I don't care what it has to tell me.
Time
is standing still, and I just feel the pure joy of this moment.
We
might be yelling, we might be crying, we might be singing.
We
are more alive than we were before...
...more
alive than most will ever know.
The
final step.
The
flash of a camera.
The
voices of a thousand, cheering as one.
The
line, for just one second, is all for us.
I
can see it all...
...with eyes wide open.
Hurricane
Bob
*
Finisher, Ironman Canada 1999 *