To Start, You Must Finish.
August 27, 2000
Ironman morning wake-ups are the most stressful part of the day for me. When the alarm goes off (I find that I actually NEED one these days), my first thought is always the same: "In 17 hours, you'll be back in this bed. This is the last time you'll be warm and comfy until then. Get moving." It's the coming face-to-face with the race once more, and this time was no exception.
Eric and I went about our routine without words. I packed my bags, squeezed into my skinsuit, and got ready for body marking, while he did the same. The major hassle that we'd felt on losing our room at the Villa was now a blessing coming out of its disguise, since we were less than 100 yards from the swim start - literally, across the street from our room. We got marked, and headed for the bike lot. The wind had finally died down a bit, and the lake was relatively calm for the first time in days. I uncovered Apollo with my traditional bike wake-up ("Good Morning, Apollo. You ready to fly today?") and filled the bottles. By now, the drill was automatic. No real worry, no real stress. I found Mike Kelly and borrowed his pump...and as I was nonchalantly cranking the air pressure up to 120 on the rear wheel, the pressure gauge committed a mechanical hara-kiri and launched itself about 11 feet in the air with a satisfying *BOOOOMMMMFF*.
I said "Whoa."
Mike said "Damn."
Kim said something worse than "Whoa" or "Damn" that rhymes with "luck" (which we were suddenly out of). While Mike and I scrambled to put the pieces back together, Kim dashed about and found another pump for Mike to use, and I apologized about 149 times in 4 seconds. Suddenly, I knew I had an idea for their shower/wedding gift in 2001, but there was no time for that now. Once all the little things had been made ready, there was nothing to do but stand around, try to stay warm, and wait.
There would be two unhappy endings before the day had even gotten started amongst the friends today - Jason had been carefully watching his temperature all week while he nursed what he thought was tonsillitis, and when this morning's measure came in at 100, he knew it wasn't a good idea to risk it. He made the hard choice to not start, making him 0 for 2 at IMs in 2000.
Mike Bundy had cut his fork short when building his Cervelo on Monday. Tuesday he had the cut piece welded back on...and Tuesday afternoon during a test ride, the welds separated at 35mph on Skaha Lake Road. He crashed heavily on his right side, and ended up fracturing a bone in his shoulder. He too, would make the tough (but correct) call to sit out this day and heal. Hearing this my Italian instincts kicked in, and I did what came naturally: I hugged him in sympathy. Remember that part about a fracture in his shoulder? I didn't, until he....ummm....reminded me. After blowing up the pump and breaking an Aussie in the same morning, I figured I should find someplace to stand, and not touch anything until 7:00am.
Eric
and I stood quietly amongst Joe Foster, David Barclay, Bruce Grant, Tricia
Richter, Lee Crumbaugh, Tina Hoeben, Bryan Waid, and what seemed like everyone
else from the IMC and TRI-DRS lists. There was lots of laughing and smiling, but
there was also a lot of staring into space...thinking of the day, the miles, and
the moments to come. Eyes that see everything and nothing at the same time -
that "The gates are down, the bells are ringing, but the train isn't
coming" look.
At 6:50am, Steve King started warning the swimmers warming up
to "Come back so we can line you up
and get you out of here.", so I eased into the water and swam around a bit.
I swam about a 3 minute warm-up, which was enough to know that I wouldn't warm
up until I was near the first turn...but that was okay. As I stood shivering, I
looked around at the faces near me, and as fate would have it Tina was on my
left, and Gordo Byrn was on my right. Gordo smiled, gave me a thumbs up, and
moved up to the front row. I was in the second row near the middle, and decided
to stay put. I had lined up near the front at IM-USA and held my own just fine,
so this time I was ready to find a good pack and motor on. My IM swims had been
getting slower, but only by seconds at a time: 1:02, 1:03, 1:04...I was hoping
that trend wouldn't continue, and maybe I'd get that long-sought 60 minute swim?
Maybe I'd back that up with a 5:30 bike, and a 5 hour run?
At 6:59, the question "What if?" is given full attention by many people one last time.
At 7:00, the questions begin finding their answers, whether you're ready to find out or not.
The cannon shot breaks the tension, ends the thinking, and starts the doing.
( Problem was, this time the cannon had a wet fuse...so the countdown went something like "5..4..3..2..1....1.....umm....GO? BOOM!" )
I fought a bit at the start, but just like IM-USA I found myself in a good group and settled in quickly. The traffic at IMC is always incredible, but what can you expect with 23,842 swimmers? Okay - so it's about 1700, but believe me - you'd think they simply dumped a stadium into the lake and told everyone to go when you're in the middle of it. No matter which way you look there are arms, legs, heads, feet, and bubbles. The CBC helicopter hovers overhead, and there's this boat of VIP's that follows the swim outside the course...and it's pretty neat to be in the middle of all that. The repetitive nature of swimming gives my mind lots of room to wander, and I usually just let it go...hoping that it'll know the way back to me when it's time to hit T1.
"Wow...that's the VIP boat. Wonder if they have French Toast? I'd love some right now."
"Eric says there are divers down there, but I've only seen them once. I wonder what we sound like from down there?"
"I wonder if the fish in this lake distribute a fish memo so that they don't panic every August when we come through here? Could you imagine what a fish would say if he didn't know we were coming? ''What the #($*!@? is that?' 'I don't #($&(@' know! 'How many #$&@! fins does that thing have?' How am I supposed to @#(*!@ know? Do I look like a @#(*! scientist to you?'"
"Hee hee...but why do the fish in that thought have to talk like construction workers?"
"I wonder if they have pancakes on that VIP boat...hmm...and coffee..."
"There's the hotel. Why doesn't it seem to get closer no matter how much I swim? Didn't that happen last year, too? Does Graham Fraser tilt the lake or something?"
*FWOOSH* 200 yards to go, my brain is back. "The waves weren't bad at all, and soon I'll be on my bike. Whew! Compared to last year I've had some contact with people, but nothing quite that bad at all. I'm really looking forward to getting out of this wetsuit...I don't think the swim was too bad."
BEEP - 1:04:19. Slower than IM-USA by 17 seconds. "You've got to be kidding me. Oh, well, I haven't swum all that much since then, anyway."
Coming
up out of the water is like being dropped via helicopter from a sound sleep into
the middle of Woodstock. Everything is loud, bright, and moving 47 times faster
than you think you can handle it. That's where the wetsuit strippers come in -
they do the thinking for you. "Lie down! Here!" POP "Hey, Bob!
It's Teresa - the lurker!" Somehow Teresa Deveaux from the IMC e-mail list
has managed to recognize me in my stupor and say hello; "I'm here to sign
up tonight - see you later!" My wetsuit is off and I'm running towards the
changing tent, feeling a lot like the White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland,
running although I'm not exactly sure where: "I'm late, I'm late..."
My transition will be easy today. For the first time, I'd decided to race the entire day in my Desoto Skinsuit. I'd always changed clothes for the run, but I figure it's time to take the leap and give it a go. I've never had a problem with the one-piece racing suit for the 1/2 Ironman distance, so why not? I dump out my T1 bag without even going into the change tent: I fight to drag dry socks onto wet feet, I squiggle into my shoes, pull up some arm-warmers, pack the pocket with food, and run towards the bike while I'm buckling my helmet and putting on my shades. For the first time in my IM career, I'm out of T1 and on the road in under 5 minutes (4:30).
As I roll out Main Street once more, I soak up as much energy from the crowd as I can. I sit up, ride no-handed, and wave to them like I'm conducting the Penticton Symphony...asking for more and more noise. Just like in 1998 and 1999, they create a wave of sound and energy that you can almost taste as you surf up the long, gradual climb out of town, a climb that you never really notice.
After about 5 miles the city limits of Penticton pass behind and you wheel along Skaha Lake road, which will be the Marathon course later in the day. The sun hasn't quite reached all of the pavement yet, so you're constantly riding in and out of sunlight - alternating cold pockets of air with that first burst of morning heat, watching the corners for wet pavement and holes that aren't easily seen in the low light. The pack here is always tight, and trying to stay out of peoples 'boxes' to avoid draft calls is a constant stressor. It is here once again that Herr Foster rolls by me on my left as I'm passing others the same way. Instinctively, I latch on to his wheel, being careful to stay 7 meters back. He pulls right into line, and for the hell of it I surge and blast by on the left. Since Joe is capable of a 9:50 finish, being passed by ANYONE is a concern, and I have to grin when he whps his head left to see who's instigating...and seeing that it's me, waves and watches me roll by.
Precisely 4 seconds later he blasts by on my left, waves goodbye, signaling the end of that game...but at least now I was warmed up for McLean Creek Road. It's a tough little climb so early on, and it always amazes me to see people trashing themselves in huge gears with nearly 103 miles to go. Standing up, riding the big ring, you'd think they'd know better...so I just let them go as I sit and spin in my little baby gears, warming to the ride, thinking of Richter Pass to come.
The downhill towards Richter is a bit insidious - especially with a tailwind. It can make you feel a lot better than you really are, so I've warned myself and lots of other people to stay within themselves. There's no point in working hard to average 25mph to the base of Richter, when it might leave you with nothing in the tank on the rollers once you've gotten OVER Richter. The wind is starting to pick up...and it's a tailwind again. Drat. That means possible big headwind on the other side of the pass...but there's no point in worrying about it now.
The miles fly by as they always seem to, and despite riding pretty easily on the way out, I'm approaching the base of Richter in just under 2 hours. I don't feel tired at all, and that's a positive sign - maybe things will work out today! Maybe IM-USA was a perfect training race, and that bee sting kept me from overdoing it - yeah!
I reach down and rub my leg for no better reason than I want to. I can't explain it, the neurons in my brain chain themselves together and fire in just the right order to tell my right hand "Let go of the bars, and massage your right quadricep." Without really thinking about it, I do...and suddenly my hip dances into a wild spasm that takes my breath away. I feel like an electric piano string has been yanked through my leg from my kneecap all the way to my hip as the muscles yip out in shocked unison.
I keep massaging, trying to figure out just what in the heck has happened to my legs...and I can feel it pretty quickly: They're sore. Sore to the touch like I'd run 20 miles the day before. Sore like I'd been doing squats for a week straight. Sore like I'd raced an Ironman 28 days ago...and there was no way I could lie to myself about it - I had. I'd love to tell myself that this isn't a problem...that all I have to do is keep moving and soon it will all be over, but I'm still far too connected with reality to lie...and too far from the finish to consider it.
Mile 40 rolls by, and as Richter Pass looms mockingly over my right shoulder...my brain responds with the universal distress call of the world as I look up into the clouds for the invisible summit: "Awww, Shit."
I'm 6 foot tall, 195 pounds of pure Clydesdale...but I suddenly feel as small and helpless as a naked infant.
Making the turn at the Husky Station at Osooyos, the climb to Richter is taken in 5 steps. It's not really that hard, it's not really that steep, and it comes early enough in the day that you can ride tempo and get over it with energy to spare if you stay within yourself. Today, I would have no such problems staying within myself, as my legs seemed to be a bit heavier, slower, and more lifeless than I'd expected. I figured shifting into my 23 would be smart, so I popped the button...and heard that awful 'klunk' sound that told me; "Sorry - you're already in your lowest gear. Would you like to try something else? Toss a bottle overboard? Drop something else not being used - like your head?"
I
settled into the best rhythm that I could, but it wasn't too smooth at all. I
was pedaling in massive, raging squares. It felt like both brakes were rubbing.
My tires had gone flat. I had left a leg back in the Slumber Lodge. It had to be
SOMETHING, right? No...unfortunately it was just plain fatigue. IM-USA had left
a sizeable debt that my body was still paying off...and there would be no
breakthrough performance today. In my plans Richter Pass was the first hurdle,
and I'd tripped over it for sure. My thoughts went out: Eric was somewhere on
the road near me, and I wondered if he was feeling the same way. Ours had been a
tale of two seasons - he was on the best form he had ever seen, and between my
thyroid problems and the physical stress of the double, I was in the worst and
heaviest shape I'd seen since before I raced triathlon. I could feel all 195
pounds being dragged along...and there was nothing to do but keep riding. It
might not be pretty, but a finish is still a finish...so upward, with no
souplesse whatsoever, I hauled up the grade like a Conrail train - slow, and
steady.
I noticed that I was sweating more - the wind was gone. That
meant that the summit of Richter was acting
as a windbreak, and chances were that a headwind was waiting at the summit, just
like in 1998. I readied for it, knowing that the rollers were coming. Over the
summit...the sun disappeared, a light cloud cover moved in, and a slight breeze
made things interesting on the downhill. I tucked in, sipped on my JetStream,
and recovered as I cruised along at around 40mph, thinking of the first roller
to come.
At the bottom I passed through an aid station, grabbed some H2O and a bag of cookies - Oatmeal Raisin! Sweet. Snack time.
I sat up and took my time eating the cookies, looking at the scenery, wondering if there might be a chance for a latte at the side of the road sometime...when suddenly I heard a familiar Canuck twang from my left: "Mr. Mina! Wow. Weiss isn't too far back, you know...maybe a minute?" piped the unstoppable David Barclay - another fool attempting the IM-USA/IMC double...and unlike myself, appearing to have no problems doing so. "Really?" I stammered through a mouthful of molasses... "Thanks!"
With that I dropped the cookies, ended snacktime, skipped nap time altogether, and tore off down the road. One minute I'm enjoying a cookie, the next...I'm down in the bars with the bit between my teeth, cruising like I'd been doing it all day. Why? I guess it was just hearing that Weiss was coming, my fight or flight instinct pushed the flight button...and off we went. I had to do SOMETHING to fight him off, no matter how inevitable the pass might be when it happened. At the time I had this image of hanging onto Weiss until T2, running out with him, and then trying to hold on until the finish.
Hey - it made sense at the time. What can I say? My ship was sinking, and I didn't have a band handy.
In about 5 minutes, the pursuit was over. Weiss rolled alongside me, and waved. "Gotcha." he said, as if somehow a 6' 3" guy on a Barney Purple bike that has been kicking my @#(* all year, showing up in my nightmares, and making me look bad in front of my sweetie might somehow slip by while I was studying the peach trees. "Uh-huh. You suck. How are your legs? Are they sore already?" I wondered. "Oh God, yeah. Since before Richter!"
True - He would beat me once more, but I took some small satisfaction in that he would be as miserable as I was doing it.
"You're riding great, man. Go get it." I surrendered, and without another word Weiss headed off the Northern horizon. Within 2 rollers, he was gone. I had to admire that - he couldn't ride that well last year, but 2 sub-6 bike splits at IM? Respect was due. I was glad that Apollo didn't have a computer - the number might have really depressed me.
As I rolled my way towards the out-and-back, I noticed that the weather was changing for the worse. The light cloud cover at Richter had turned darker, and the air had gotten colder. I was thinking about reaching back and putting on my arm-warmers once more, but I knew once I'd hit Cawston that the headwind would become a tailwind for a bit (on the out) so I just gritted my teeth and tried to ignore the chill. It gave me something to work against - a reason to pick up the pace on a day where I was starting to question my reason for even being out on the road at all.
Entering Cawston, putting the last of the 7 rollers behind me, I picked up the tailwind I'd been hoping for and set sail for the Special Needs pickup at 70 miles. The temperature difference was unreal - I was suddenly soaking myself with sweat again within 3 miles, and that meant the wind behind me was getting harder and harder, probably close to 15-20mph. I could see people on their way out riding in the little ring against it...so I knew I should abandon any thought of using the tailwind to make time - I would need the power to get out of an already brutal out-and-back, quite possibly made epic now with the weather coming over Yellow Lake.
Chuckie V and Peter Reid would summit Yellow Lake in sunshine and clear skies...and they would be the last people to do so all day. A rogue front rolled over the summit behind them, and proceeded to attack the age-groupers scattered all over the Okanagan Valley. The temperature dropped from 77 degrees to 55 degrees within the hour, and as I made the pickup at special needs, I turned around to see a cloudy sky turning black on all sides. I filled my pockets, tucked a card that Lynda had sent with me into my skinsuit, and rolled off into the last 40 miles...sure they would be the worst.
I can't remember seeing anyone on the backside of Cawston at all. I can remember looking for people in 1998 and 1999, but this time the tape is a blank. I had my head down, and both hands grasping the Syntace's for all they were worth. I hadn't put my arm-warmers on at the start of the back section, but soon the cold was just too much...so I sat up no-handed and reached back to get them.
In that moment of ignorance, a gust of wind slapped across the road and grabbed Apollo by the Jetstream. With no weight on the front wheel the bottle acted like a sail and tacked Apollo wildly across the road like a sailboat with no-one at the helm. Keeping my hands behind my back (I was too scared to move them), I tried to keep up with my hips using every roadie-trick my brain could think of to follow the gust and ride it out. Thank God there was no-one next to me, coming the other way, or behind me - I used both sides of the road, both shoulders, and lots of colorful words while I surfed hither and yon...finally getting the front wheel down and getting my hands back on the bars. It was only 2 or 3 seconds at most...but I swore the seasons changed before I'd gotten under control.
I pulled over near a family of spectators, and stopped. I was panting like a dog on a summer day, and my mouth had that metallic, adrenaline-hangover taste that you get after a close call. I called Time Out for a minute, and put my arm-warmers on - standing very much still as the wind sent sticks and leaves tumbling back the way I came. For the first time in my Ironman career, the words "I should quit." were lofted across my mind. In reaching my state of peace the night before, I had taken myself to a wonderful...but dangerous place, as far as racing was concerned. By realizing that the Ironman was not the end-all, be-all I needed it to be anymore, my motivation to finish had lost a big source of emergency-energy. Knowing that I could pack up and go home, and be none the worse? That life would go on, Lynda would be there, the cat would pounce my while I slept...and my esteem would be intact? Heck - I'd already DNF'ed at The Chesapeake Bay Swim that year, so I knew how it would feel. In these conditions...I was being tested. My resolve was at a crossroads, and I had no idea why I should go on.
"Are you okay?" asked a woman in the group. Her young son, maybe 5 years old, ran over and started ringing his little cowbell at me, yelling "GoGOGOGOGOGOGOGO!" as little kids do. "Sure, ma'am. Just taking a minute to gather my wits. Have you seen them around here?" She laughed, and I managed a weak smile.
CLANGCLANGCLANGCLANGCLANG
"GOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGO!"
I looked down. This little guy was cheering his heart out for someone he'd never seen before. I was just one of 1700 people that would ride by him, but right now? I was all that seemed to matter in his world, and he was giving me all that he could. "High Five, man!" I held out my hand. The clanging stopped, his eyes got REAL big, and he launched himself a good 3 inches (3 feet in adult height) off the ground to slap me some love. "ALRIGHT!" he chirped. "
CLANGCLANGCLANGCLANGCLANG
"GOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGO!"
Just Yellow Lake to go to the downhill. I could force it that far, and maybe I'd be warmer on the run? I had nothing to lose...and my little stop had given my overtaxed emotions just enough time to calm down and settle to where I could think almost clearly (as clearly as one thinks after 6 hours of racing, anyway). I clipped in, and waved goodbye to the group, listening to the "CLANGCLANGCLANG" fade into the distance as the wind soon whistled through my helmet louder than anything else. The skies were still black, the wind was awful, but I knew it wouldn't be too long before I could descend into town.
I was surprised at how spread out the field had become. Probably because I was riding so much farther back than I expected, there just weren't that many people on the road to deal with. Nobody to talk to, cheer for, or chase down. That seemed to make time go by more slowly...but then again, it was probably just me moving more slowly with time giving me the honest truth.
As I approached the final walls at Yellow Lake, I could see the end of the long line of cars waiting for their chance to get over the one-lane opening at the summit. I knew that meant less than 2 miles to go, so I tucked my head down low and pedaled the ugliest pedal strokes mankind had ever seen up the slope. I'd love to say I read something on the road that we'd scribbled 2 days earlier...but I can't remember a damn thing, other than thinking that the colors on the road were very trippy. I was climbing like a swimmer on a kickboard - head down, push push push push, head up - not there yet - head down - push push push push...
I could hear people screaming, yelling, and willing me up the slope, and it seemed the uglier I rode, the more they yelled. As Twin Lakes finally (mercifully) came into view...I remembered talking my way over the summit last year using Tour de France commentator Phil Liggett in my head...but this time, all I could hear was Uncle Phil piping up with a line from the 1999 Tour when Giuseppe Guerini was knocked over by a spectator on L'Alpe D'Huez: "Oh, MY! Well, that is disgraceful!"
What a difference a year makes...
I soft-pedaled through the false-flat next to Twin Lakes, savoring the break in steepness, then up the last 100 yards of hill to the second and final summit. As I twisted, wrenched, grinded, and hauled myself up the last grade, I had my head down...and I noticed that the road surface was shiny: Wet. The wind was whipping at it's worst at this exposed point, and at the very top sat 5 spectators in lawn chairs...huddled underneath 2 quilts...hanging on against the wind for dear life. Still, they managed to each pop a hand out from under the blankets and wave as I rolled by...thankful to put the worst of IMC's bike course behind me...or so I thought.
As I shifted onto my big Chainring, the water on the road started to spray off the wheels...all over me. Since I wasn't pedaling anymore my body heat had taken a bit of a header, and my hands started to shiver. I heard a popping sound - one like Jiffy Pop when it first starts to cook: POP...pop..pop....POPpop...popPOPpop...then a bug hit my arm. "Ow!" Then another...and another...then 4 at once...then my lone working brain cell put the whole awful picture together:
"Hail?"
POPpopPOPpoppoppoppoppopPOPpopPOPpop "OW! Shit! Auuuugh! ARRRGGGHH!" I was soaked to the skin, and now it was hailing. My arms were shaking like leaves, and I was descending into a 20mph headwind...desperately trying to get down in one piece. The fact that I was so far removed from the field was another blessing in disguise; I could shiver and shake and not have to worry about hitting anything (aside from the guardrail and the rock cliffs to the left). I thought going up was pain, but this was REAL pain - the hailstones felt like nails on my skin, and the cold was just consuming me from the inside out. Usually the 12 miles down from Yellow Lake are a great time for spinning down, recovering, and getting ready for the marathon...but as far as I was concerned, I couldn't even think about the next minute, let alone the next 5 hours.
Near the bottom of the hills...the temperature began to warm up a bit as the altitude came down. The shivering stopped, and my skinsuit had dried out. I felt like I'd been dropped in a washing machine and spun for 3 days...so I was free-wheeling whenever I could, just to reset my head. As I did, I heard a loud buzzing - like truck tires, but smaller. A man passed me, wearing a black shirt, red necktie, white Keds, helmet, and riding a SINGLE speed, fat tire beach cruiser. I thought it was a joke, until I saw the number on his seatpost - he was really racing, and really passing me.
I hid my face in shame. Apollo wept openly.
When
I rolled down Main Street, I was as happy as I'd ever been to see the end of an
IM bike section. Both IM-USA and IMC had wrung me out emotionally and physically
before I'd unclipped into T2...so at least the exhaustion I was already feeling
was a familiar foe. As I made the last turn into T2, I sat up...and was passed
by another clown - this one on a
5-Speed, with sneakers, ribbons on the bars, and a flower basket (a nice Martha
Stewart touch, really). I shrugged in surrender to the crowd, and dismounted
Apollo to head for the warmth of the change tent.
The
plan was to change shoes, socks, and grab the rest in a quick move. This plan
called for all my fingers working at once, unfortunately. I waddled into the
tent, sat down in a fetal position, and rocked back and forth...trying to warm
my hands up. I must have spent 5 minutes sitting before a volunteer came over
and asked me "Would you like some help getting your helmet off, sir?"
I had forgotten about it, and really didn't care. It was too far to reach with my hands, so I'd have probably run the marathon with it if he hadn't said something. "Sure." I slowly changed into my sneakers, and wobbled a bit as I stood up...but I noticed that a note had been slipped into my transition bag and dumped on the ground...so after looking at it and thinking really hard, I came to the conclusion that the note wouldn't come up to me. I bent down (OOF!) and got it on the first try (whew). It was from Lee Crumbaugh, and simply said "Never Give Up. Never, Never, Never. - Winston Churchill." How perfect. How utterly perfect for this day. Lee - thank you.
I
knew I'd better get moving before too long or I'd be a permanent part of the
scenery in the tent...so I donned my cap, clipped on my number belt, and trotted
very warily out to the run course. T2 was a more pedestrian 7:49...so much for
gaining time with the skinsuit.
Once out the gate onto Main Street, I was comfortable! The running warmed me up in less than 200 yards, and I spotted Kim on the right side of the road. "Lynda's not here, so I'm going to kiss you hello instead." I stopped, gave her a quick peck on the cheek and plodded off, calling back "Tell Lynda I'm doing fine - a little slow, but fine!" It was a little lie...but at that moment? I was off my bike - I really was doing fine...and I had met an unspoken goal from my fiancée: "Get off the bike with no new scars."
It was just so freaking NICE to be warm for a change, I really enjoyed the first 3 miles out of town. I ran for awhile with Anik Mercure from the IMC-list, and she agreed that it was a miserable bike for everyone - it felt so much better to be running! I never thought I'd ever say that, but I didn't feel too badly at all. The closest I'd ever been to town when the leader chugged by going the other way was the 4-mile mark in 1998 when Cristian Bustos went by. This time, Peter Reid caught me at mile 3, and it was a looooong time before I saw anyone else. Clearly he had crushed the field today, and when the son of a gun trucked by me he didn't even look like he was sweating.
I
just kept on keeping on, noticing from time to time that the sun was poking out
from behind the clouds...the front was almost gone. I was running better than
I'd expected, probably because I liked being warm...but then warm started to
feel too warm...and then the sun came out full force. It was like the hail and
sleet had never happened, and it was summer in the South Okanagan again. I was
happy to feel it warm up, and I knew I wasn't alone: There was enough abandoned
clothing along the road to outfit a small army for a Springtime invasion. With a
slight headwind I decided to flip my hat around...but then I remembered another
marching order from the mother-in-law to be from the wedding party in the East:
"Please don't wear that hat backwards and get a 'D' tanned into your
forehead...or else!" Anyone who would have been behind me would have seen
me reach up to spin my hat - remember the "Anti-D" resolution, and
immediately spin that sucker forwards in one swift motion. This would be
repeated no fewer than 14 times on the way out Skaha Lake Road; Flip back
-"DAMN"- twist front - tuck head.
The lead men trucked by one after the other, and then Lori Bowden came by - also not showing a sign of effort at all. I'd never seen anyone other than Lori Bowden win Ironman Canada, and it was just awesome to watch this little figure come skimming down the other side of the road without making a sound, breathing or otherwise. How can she make it look so easy?
Watching the varying states of the leading men was good for some distraction, but then one of them looked over at me and casually waved; "Hey Bob." I squinted...and then just as we were next to one another going in very different directions my brain got it: "GORDO! Dude!" Gordo Byrn was cruising big time, on his way to a 22nd place overall...looking less bothered than me! Not bad for someone who had just started this whole IM habit in 1998. At the awards banquet the next night, he told me that my facial expressions (curiosity to confusion to recognition to surprise) really motivated him - that look of "What the heck are you doing there!?" really gave him a boost.
By mile 6, the sun was really out now...and it was officially hot. I was still comfy in my skinsuit, so that experiment was working well. I was just knocking down the miles, doing the best that I could. 7 went by...then 8. I was still running between the aid stations, and that seemed to be a deal I could keep with myself - run to the next one, then a one minute break. I still had hopes of salvaging a 5-hour run split (my best was a 5:35 in 1999), so that meant running until I couldn't run anymore.
At mile 11, there was the distant sound of a cash-register going "Cha-CHING!", and my IM-USA debt reared it's ugly head once more. I tripped over my own feet...and took my first walk break that wasn't an aid station on the long uphill to Okanagan Falls. I had gotten there in 2:10, just a tick over a 10 minute pace...but I had a feeling that wouldn't be the order of the day from here forward. With a sigh, I shifted gears to 'best possible forward motion' mode, and ran when I could.
By now I was seeing some familiar faces coming down the hill from OK Falls, so I did my best to spot friends when my brain could muster the concentration to see a face coming the other way. Joe Foster, Cary McConologue, then unbelievably - Weiss. I don't know how, I was just damn impressed. He was on pace to finishing well under 12 hours again...and all I could do was high five him as we passed, going opposite directions...again. He handed me a small gold package and yelled back "READ IT!!!" as he rounded the corner and trotted towards town.
It was a condom.
He had written "GO FOR IT!" on the back of it.
I stopped in my tracks.
"Go for what? Christ, he's not making a pass at me, is he?" No, no, that couldn't be it. We may have spent all summer together but I know he's not THAT tired. Neither am I.
Considering that Eric has a history of mailing random postcards to people, as well as cans of chicken soup, laminated swim workouts, smashed Twinkies, bath toys, and Canadian currency...I guessed this was just another wacked prop with a good message, and put it in my pocket.
Tricia Richter came soon after, with Eric only about 10 minutes ahead. "Go get him, Tri Baby!" I shouted. "He's only up the road!" She managed an "Augh! I'm trying!" in reply, but she had her head tilted to the left...something I used to do on the bike when I was chasing a breakaway really hard (I don't know why). I think it's just the act of trying to keep up with a horizon that has started to tilt with the onset of anaerobic debt.
Walking up the hill towards the turnaround...I got miffed. Not because I was walking - but why was I walking uphill? The run course had been changed this year to make the finish a Lakeside affair, so they were supposed to have moved the turnaround *back* towards town, thus negating the big, ugly, mean, nasty and horrible climb that I was now trudging up. What they had done in the move was eliminated the false flat that came well AFTER you had made it up that big, ugly, mean, nasty and horrible hill.
Not fair.
I hit the turnaround at 2:26...on pace for a sub-5 hour run, if only the turn had been at 13.1 miles, and not 12.5 as it was, but I didn't remember that. I rumbled, stumbled, and just about tumbled down the big, ugly, mean, nasty and horrible hill...self-arresting my plunge long enough to grab my run special needs bag at 13 miles. As luck would have it, Mr. Kelly (Mike's Dad) jumped out from the side and yelled "Whoa there! Hey!" and clicked my picture. I haven't seen what I looked like, and if Mr. Kelly ever wants to have his film developed in the same place more than once...I hope for his sake he's never had that print made. I can imagine that grey skin in a grey skinsuit tinged with salt, hat tilted to the right, tongue being stepped on...no, not one of my better moments for sure. He still took a moment to talk to me, and I told him "Mike'll be coming...it was a tough day on the bike for all of us." I hadn't seen Mike at all that day, so I hoped I wasn't giving him false hope...
Down through OK Falls once more...waving to familiar faces heading out: Lee Crumbaugh, David Schoonmaker, then Steve Wyle. I yelled "Go Steve!" and his figure leaned forwards...squinting. "Bob? Is that you?" he asked. It turned out that he had used some anti-fog solution in his seal mask...and inflamed his Corneas during the swim. With vision getting progressively worse and worse as the day wore on, he kept moving...by now, only able to see 3 feet ahead of him. Guts - pure guts.
I did see Mike Kelly...plodding along, getting the job done. I could tell he was in a bad place, but he was still pretty lucid when I saw him. Lastly came Tony Lyons and Bryan T. Waid. Bryan had been the guy I most worried about in this race. Not comfortable on hills ("Texas is kinda' flat..." he'd mention), I was sure the weather would be too much - how thrilled I was to be wrong again! Walking the walk with Tony at the pace needed to finish, I knew he'd be okay.
I was walking, running, shuffling, walking...walking...and walking. The collapse was coming just like it had in 1998, but since it was familiar ground to me, I wasn't upset about it at all. At least I was well past the turnaround - it was at the same spot where I'd surrendered to the course then, and walked in with Gibbo and Keith.
By mile 18, the sun was setting...and I was on my way to being cold once more. In my optimism I hadn't planned on being out on the road past sunset...so I hadn't packed a jacket in my special needs bag. The race was on: I had to finish near twilight, or I'd be in deep trouble. Trying to continue running was an exercise in pain - my hip flexors had clearly had enough, and with every stride I was tripping over my own feet again...and my split from mile 17 to 18 was a 15:40. Facing a dilemma I asked myself, what was it Jason used to do at times like this?
I couldn't run, so I started racewalking. Arms swinging, feet shuffling, I did my best impersonation of a mall-walker of America...and focused on getting one foot in front of the other as fast as I could without tweaking my hips. Sure enough, mile 19 was a 14:03, and I had enough air to laugh about it as I mall-walked down the road. I might look like a biomechanical nightmare, but at this rate...I'd be at the line in just a little under 2 hours...and I was working up a light sweat, too. That was more key to me than any pace - I just wanted to avoid hypothermia - finish, and get the hell out of town in one piece.
The miles ticked by, and the light faded away.
I marched past the "Welcome to Penticton" sign at 21 miles.
I zigged and zagged through the outskirts of Penticton at 22 miles...catching a football lobbed by a spectator in stride, then demonstrating for his entire family why I race triathlon by heaving it a good 10 feet over his head and into a pond. (I got a standing ovation for the effort...)
I merged onto Main Street for the 3rd time in 3 years at 23 miles.
With darkness enveloping the course, I chugged on down Main Street...and found the legs to start running the best that I could at 24 miles. I could only manage about a 12 minute mile, but compared to where I had been since the turnaround...I felt like I was flying. Laura Dickenson Lee passed by me, and I managed to cheer "Hey Laura!" as she left me in her wake. Without turning her head, she waved once with her right hand, and strode out of sight. Clearly, she was a hurting unit...but who isn't at 24 miles? If she was back with me...clearly it had been a day and a half for her.
The crowd was starting to grow now...and if I turned my head the right way, I could hear the muffled bass beat of the sound system at the finish line. I was close. I was so close, I could feel it and taste it. I began to let my last bit of worry go...I knew that I could get down on my hands and knees and crawl from where I was, and still make the midnight cutoff. To no-one in particular, I remember mouthing the words "I'm going to make it. Thank God, I'm going to make it."
The change in the course came just before Mile 25. Up until now, we'd headed straight down Main Street past the Hog's Breath Cafe, then turned left for the short 100 yard stretch to the Finish Line. Now, we would turn left one block before the Hogs Breath, then right, then left onto Lakeshore at Mile 25 for one last agonizing out and back on Lakeshore Drive...running from the S.S. Sicamous to the Finish Line from the opposite direction.
As I turned left, all I can remember was the wall of people pointing, cheering, and making so much noise, I couldn't hear myself think. Here we were coming up on 8:30 at night, and this crowd hadn't gone anywhere since Peter Reid came through nearly 5 hours ago. They are what makes Ironman Canada the race that it is...and after sending me up Main Street on a wave of noise 139 miles ago, they would use an even louder wave to carry me home.
The chute down to Lakeshore was narrow - maybe 10 feet. There were people on both sides screaming, waving, clapping, and hanging over the fences...literally 2 feet from my face on either side. It was within those 10 feet my composure punched the clock, and after a day of holding me together...there was no reason to hold it in anymore.
As I ran over the huge, red "25" painted on the pavement...with all these people cheering...
knowing that I had come as close to quitting as I'd ever been...
I had gotten through it...I was going to get another Maple Leaf Medal.
I was going to finish...I was going to go home like I'd promised I would.
I was going to marry a woman I loved more than I loved life itself...
...in less than one glorious and immersing second the enormity of how lucky I am in this life hit me all at once, and the tears started.
Seeing the tears, the cheering only grew louder, and that made me cry even more. I couldn't stop. I covered my face to try and hold it together, but there was just no way.
Running with both hands on my face, trying in vain to stop the sobs, I turned the corner and headed off into the darkness. I had one more mile to get myself back together, so I peeked back over my shoulder - stealing a glimpse at the finish line as it somehow cruelly faded away, even as I grew closer to it with every step.
The sudden silence along Lakeshore was eerie. Running away from the madness of the finish line, beyond most of the sounds of the music and announcers...I could hear my heavy footfalls, my breathing, and I could see the silent, ghostly shadows of people headed the other way on the other side of the street. I was able to gather myself back up before the last turn at the Sicamous, and with my eyes clear - ready to get this thing done, I entered the last half mile of Ironman Canada.
As I did, I noticed that I was now in the middle of a small group of 4. Sandra Smith and Steve Wyle were right ahead of me! I hadn't seen them since the far end of the run course, but at the turn I could see we were just yards apart. We stayed that way, in close but respectful formation...all the way down Lakeshore. The lights grew brighter, the sounds grew louder...and slowly but surely, the homestretch came into view, this time for keeps.
I
had stopped crying. I could see the banner, the clock, and I was awake and lucid
enough to make sure I didn't run up on Steve Wyle as he finished...yet still
moving fast enough to keep the woman behind me who was suddenly sprinting from
ruining my finish picture. I took 2 steps, leapt up, and crossed the line -
finally.
I was fine.
I was together.
I had it all under control.
Then Kim saw me, ran directly over 4 volunteers, came forward, and caught me...
(This is the link to my finish on Ironmanlive.com You'll need the RealPlayer to see this)
...and I wasn't so fine anymore. I don't know why, but all I could do was let my body go limp on her shoulder...and I started bawling all over again...or maybe it was the same breakdown that had started at 25, gone into repression when no-one was around, then come back for a big finish when I was all done - I don't know. Being Italian means my emotions have carte-blance to go wherever the heck they want, whenever the heck they want. Being a fellow Goomba, Kim just held me until I was done crying...and with Graham Fraser looking on at the whole scene, I managed to sum up the day in one brilliant, mono-syllabic summary:
"That was so hard!"
I made sure Kim knew that Mike was out there, fine, still moving, and coming along just like the rest of us. She led me to get my T-Shirt, hat, dry-strip bag, and then following orders from home, dialed my cell phone, handed it to me and said "Talk. Tell Lynda you're fine." I did, using a lot of repeated words because I couldn't think of too many things beyond "Hail. Sleet. Cold. Rain. No D on forehead." I promised I would call when I could think more clearly...probably some time tomorrow.
Kim pointed me towards the Slumber Lodge...and I was somehow able to get myself and my gear into the room without getting lost or forgetting what room I was supposed to go to. Eric and Dave Barclay were waiting there, and watching the finishers on TV. I grabbed a shower, and grabbed some floor to sprawl out and recover. Bruce and Martha Grant came by...and once Mike finished, he and Kim joined us with Kim running the show. She had made friends with the Domino's Pizza folks in Gyro Park...and before we knew it, less than 1 block from the IMC finish line, we had a late dinner of 4 pizzas delivered to our room in time to watch the last finisher on TV.
It was hard to believe that the day had been so utterly epic, but we had all survived...survived being the key word. Eric ended up stopping at an aid station for 20 minutes to take off his shoes to massage the sorest pair of feet in the world...but he still finished in 12:25. However, Tricia did manage to catch him for the second year in a row - this time on Lakeshore Drive...handing back the condom he'd handed her in the process.
As I peeled the covers back to end the longest day...the covers that had mocked me 19 hours earlier...I cackled madly as we set the alarm for a 6:00am wakeup; One last maddening moment so I could get in line to do it all over again next year. I looked over at Eric and said "Why? Why do we do this?"
"I have no idea. Maybe you should go line up now to make sure you get in?" He grinned.
Little did we know it, but he was closer to being right than making a funny. There were already 100 people sleeping in the lobby of the Lakeside Hotel...the first people having grabbed spots in line less than 10 minutes after I'd crossed the line.
Thankful this would be the last time I'd have to worry about it...I turned off the light, and though about tomorrow's extra finish line - The right to be on the start line for 2001.