Home • IMC 2001 Prologue • IMC 2001 Chapter 1 • IMC 2001 Chapter 2 • IMC 2001 Chapter 3 • IMC 2001 Chapter 4 • IMC 2001 Chapter 5

The clock said 3:58. I had been watching it since it said 3:02.

I shut off the alarm before it went off. For the first time in five tries I had precious little sleep the night before. It wasn't fear, but it wasn't calm either - my emotions of the moment were more of tense waiting - there wasn't long to go, now. I rose from the darkness and walked into the living room to get dressed, slipping into the skinsuit that would be my only uniform of the day. I had left my dry-strip bag by the door, and I was ready to go by 4:15.

Pity we weren't meeting to walk down until 5:15. I ate (played with, swished around) some Mueslix, drank some Gatorade, and tried to convince my racing mind to sit down and eat something before it tripped and hurt itself running circles like that. Lynda got dressed and came out, a veteran of the Race-Day morning: She knew conversation from me would be of the one and two-word sentence variety, so we talked more with looks and nods then anything else.

At 5:00 there was a knock on the door: I opened it and stared into the stubborn darkness, but could only see a gigantic pair of eyes looking back. Kim was face to face with the morning, and was doing her best to keep it all together. With Mike standing by the best that he could she hugged me, then Lynda hugged her, and just a few tears managed to escape. "We hit Denny's first thing - Moon's Over My Hammy, baby. I'm ready to go, now." she sniffled, doing her best to smile through that awful, first-timer morning.

Mark and Beth walked over at 5:10, followed soon by Eric and Amy, Tricia, and then Bruce and Martha. En masse, we walked down the stairs and out to Lakeshore Drive, towards the lights and buzzing of the start. The silence at that moment was enveloping, and poor Beth walked right into the middle of it (innocently enough) by asking, "Hey, how about a group picture?" Unfortunately, nobody was really in the mood at that moment and we all responded, "NO." in unison, and in tension. I felt pretty bad for such a terse reply but at the moment, but we were all getting in character for what was to come (and we would have made for one lousy looking picture, anyway).

We made our way down to Transition and Body Marking, dropping off the Special Needs bags in the usual place. Eric was going through his usual checklist, and Mark set off to take care of things at his own pace. Everyone did their own thing in their own order - no words or apologies necessary. I got in line for marking with my in-laws and Lynda nearby, knowing that once I entered the bike lot I'd be leaving them until it was all over. I knew the bike was ready, the bags were in place, my special needs were packed - there was little left to do now but wait, and try not to think too much.

As I stood in line, the sun was previewing it's full entrance to come in about an hour. The skies had turned from purple to a champagne pink, and the first glow of sunlight was ever so slightly lighting the Eastern Range. The sound system was playing Enya, and the song "Only Time" came on. As I waited for my turn, I let my mind wander and get lost in the words of the moment.

"Who can say where the road goes, Where the day flows, only time..."

I held Lynda's hand, and looked at the skies above.

"Who can say if your love grows, as your heart chose, only time..."

"Who can say when the roads meet, That they might be, In your heart..."

As I let the emotions swirl around me, I smiled the most contended smile since I'd uttered, "I will." Rarely has a moment been so perfect, so peaceful, and so calming. I had everyone I cared about right there with me, I was fit, I was focused, and I knew that I'd already done everything I could to be ready. There was no doubt, there was no worry - no matter what the day brought, I'd really done all I could. Even if it all went wrong for some reason, that was okay. The big picture was all I was thinking of at that moment, and Ironman was in it's rightful place as a part - an ingredient of my being - not as the sole reason for it. The balance I'd come to find before the 2000 race, was there. Finally.

I said my goodbyes to Lynda and my in-laws, Amy, Tricia, and most everyone else I'd wanted to see before the start. Walking into the cove is always a weird experience: You're walking in surrounded by athletes on all sides, and you're walking in utterly alone. Nobody talks, everyone looks ahead. Walking down the ramp to the beach, everyone exhales the same breath - the one that says, "Damn. Here we go." Some folks are in the water warming up - others are on the beach, waiting to the last minute (and some beyond!) before the have to feel the icy chill of morning water in the suit.

I waded in, splashed around a bit, stretched, and splashed around some more. I had no watch - I would race without (as I had all summer), so I had to trust others to tell me how long to go until the start. With 2 minutes to go, I looked back. I looked at the thousands of faces looking down at us - the mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, brothers and sisters of us that had put up with chlorine hair, tire marks on the rug, bottles all over the place, taper buzzies, empty refrigerators, and everything else that dealing with the IM brings to a household. They'd have a long day of thinking and worrying while we'd have it easy: Sure we'd be working, but at least we'd know how things were going the entire way. I wished there was some way I could tell Lynda I was okay while out there...she'd been through as many hours of tense waiting as I had of physical pain, and being on the other side of the fence is worse - no question.

We all gave our families the applause they deserved, but it still didn't seem like enough to me. How can you repay someone for all that sacrifice?

"One Minute to go!"

I don't know where it started, but there was a clap. Then another, and another. More and more triathletes started clapping in unison - slowly at first, as the wave of noise spread from left to right - building in tempo and intensity until it turned into a full on standing ovation. I'll never forget it - we clapped for one another in our last moment as one, before we went 1997 different ways.

I was lined up on the front row, left. The flag was right ahead of me. I didn't hear the cannon - I heard the ropes and pulleys start whizzing, and I was gone under that sucker as soon as it cleared my head.

* BOOOM! *

I had taken the gamble of starting in front for once. With all my IM swims between 1:03 and 1:04, I figured I could hang with the big boys - it worked like a charm. I didn't have a single body-check until we approached the first turn-boat at about 1 mile. There all the little lemmings around me piled in, and we spawned around the boat with the waterslide that's ALWAYS there (I only know of Tony Lyons actually sliding down it mid-race). I focused on following the feet before me and staying within the group. Clearly I had guessed right on my starting position - I was surrounded by people of the same pace and stroke, so we were just chugging along like a swimming peloton. Glancing back into the sun on the outbound lake, I watched the endless spray of a thousand arms light up the sky in the dance of the daylight fireflies. I loved it - it was always an image that stayed with me - to truly feel a part of something larger than life, only for awhile.

Heading back, the Penticton Lakeside Hotel grew inexorably larger with each stroke, but it still seemed (as always) to take the entire morning to get within earshot of Mike Reilly. I knew that when I could hear the music and PA over the water, I was within 400 yards - about 6 minutes. I'd been hoping for a 1:03 swim based on my practice swims, and as the stumbling bodies wobbled across the rocks ahead of me, I knew I was close. I stayed low in the water and let the wetsuit float me across the rough stuff in only 1 foot of water - passing 10-15 people without touching a stone.

As I stood up, the clock read 1:03:29 - right on the money. I dashed out and ran at the wall of strippers, all of whom were waving, "Here! HERE!" to us. I went straight, and I don't even remember how it all happened - I was already thinking about getting to my bag and getting to the bike as fast as I could. I'd already decided to transition on the grass and just skip the tent traffic jam altogether, so I snagged my bag and got to it. Dave Krieger had left a note in my bag (he'd asked me to carry it to BC and put it in there), but when I picked it up I'd realized that he'd STAPLED it shut! I tossed it back in the bag and promised I'd read it later...as well as notes from Lee Crumbaugh, Eric Weiss - it was like a mail call in T1!

I left the arm warmers there, squiggled on the shoes (skipping socks in the IM bike for the first time), and tore off, putting on the helmet while I carried my shades in my mouth. Of course, I was panting like a puppy all the way to my bike while I held my Oakleys in my teeth...which meant that as soon as I put them on, I couldn't see a damn thing - I'd completely fogged them over. I flipped them into the helmet vents, grabbed Apollo from her end-rack spot (#299 was a magic number), and ran to the bike start. The day was going well, but I knew it had barely begun. I clipped in, and tore off down the right side of the road out of the saddle, leaning in towards the corner fencing at Gyro Park while I pumped my right hand windmill-style - "Lets GO!"

As I tucked into the bars and headed up Main Street, I could relax for the first time. As the music and the crowd noise faded into a whirr of chains and wheels around me, I let the tension of transition leave me for good - it was time to do what I loved to do - it was time to ride it like I'd stolen it.

I love the bike course at IMC: One loop, 112 miles. 2 mountains, one mentally brutal out and back, and lots of long rollers. Perfect for the big man - it's a rhythm ride that can be attacked slowly, as the first 40 miles are generally flat to downhill (with the painful exception of McLean Creek Road at mile 6). I sat and spun up McLean Creek, and let those who dared early to roar by on the left. Cresting McLean, I just settled back into my bars and got ready for the long cruise to Richter Pass.

The sun was now just above the surrounding peaks, and the air was losing it's early chill. My skinsuit was dry (save the always-last-to-go chamois), and the first beads of sweat filled the pads in my helmet. My breathing was shallow, and the gears were turning over like I'd hoped they would - easily. The technical early miles of ups and downs through horse farms and vineyards rolled by as beautifully as I'd remembered, against the backdrop of a cloudless azure sky. Down past OK Falls on the road to Osoyoos, I made sure to keep the food coming and the JetStream topped off. I was drinking Quic Disc, mixing it up on the fly as I grabbed water from every aid station. I managed to unwrap and consume a package of Pop Tarts while on the smooth section of Highway along Vaseaux Lake, steering Apollo down the road with only my forearms for about 2 miles. I was relaxed, and I knew that was good - no point in being nervous so early. I knew what was coming, and that saving energy for when it mattered.

The 40 miles of Highway 97 disappeared into my mental notes for the race report, and before I really knew it the first stair-step of Richter Pass rose up to greet me. I've always felt out of sorts here - after nearly 2 hours of uninterrupted big-gear riding, the downshift always makes me feel like my legs have just been slapped on from a sound sleep. I dumped it to the 23-tooth bailout, and allowed my muscles to adapt to the strain - there would be more to come. As I sat up my bladder also poked for some attention, so I pulled over to a well-placed thicket of shrubs and made a mental note that I was okay with my hydration to here.

As the marshals pointed the way, I made the zigs and zags through the Husky Station Parking Lot, and entered the road to the summit of Richter for the 5th time. I had finished my JetStream as I got there, and I tossed my bottle from it's cage to get the bike as light as possible. It would be about 30 minutes to the top, so I knew that I could go that long without a drink - I'd just have to be VERY sure I got a bottle as soon as I'd finished the descent into the valley on the other side. I scooted back on the saddle, draped my hands on the tops like I was playing a piano, and said, "Giddy-up time!"

The rider ahead of me looked at his watch, so I borrowed his glance: "Hey friend, what time is it?"

"9:48am." He replied. That meant I'd made it through transition to here in 1:45. Excellent.

I sat and spun up the lower slopes, watching the sparkles of spokes in the sun covering the road below make their way up the valley as the helicopters following the leaders disappeared over the ridge above. I wheeled over the chalk art from Friday's caravan, and smiled at all the stupid things we'd written to one another. Eric had scribbled to me, and I'd scribbled back. Amy had written to Eric, and Lynda had scribed to me. I passed over a note I'd made to myself, and it caught me by surprise (as I hoped it would). I'd put down a 4-part scree in the hopes I could put a good climbing song into my head....

"EL"

"E"

"VA"

"TION"

Just like that, Bono and the boys from U2 were inspiring me up the slopes, and I was rocking and grinning that my little trick had actually worked. I'd hoped it boosted everyone else who saw it - that was the idea!

The 6 steps up Richter passed below Apollo and I, and I still felt together at the summit. It was getting warmer now, and I'd opened up the zipper on my suit to catch what air that I could. There was no wind, so the top of the climb had been pretty toasty. It wasn't the sauna of 1998, but it was the desert of the Okanagan - and that was hot enough. Over the top I tucked down on the bars and began the long fall to the rollers below.

Just as I wound out the 12-tooth a camper passed me on the left, kicking up enough turbulence to grab the front wheel and shake Apollo in her own little wind-quake. The front wheel and it's deep rim started a sickening, random dance in the buffeting, while I waited for a moment to get out of the bars and near the brakes. Unfortunately, there was someone descending in the middle of the lane just ahead, which meant the camper had to wait to pass - staying right at my side.

I danced, shimmied, and kept on pedaling to keep the bike from developing the speed-wobble I could FEEL it wanted to start, praying that I could just hang on long enough to drag the binders. After a few more seconds I couldn't take it any longer, and popped my torso up into the air while still down in the aerobars to try and air-brake my way out of this mess (a roadie-group trick when bunched up and braking isn't an option). It worked! I slipped back from the camper, and got Apollo back to center and smooth.

Just then, my buddy Peter Novelli from Philly rolled by. "Yo, Big Bob! How are you?" He dove past me, passed the camper on the right, and tore off down the slope. "Big Bob.." I chuckled. Why is it all the little guys call me that?

As the descent flattened out I passed the aid station and grabbed 2 bottles, sticking one in my pocket and the other on the bike, making good on my promise to drink up after doing the camel bit up Richter. I mixed up some more Quic Disc, and ate a bag of pretzels that I'd also snagged as the "Last Chance" volunteer whistled by.

Next would come the 'rollers' of the course. Following Richter, these 7 climbs keep your rhythm changing as you snake your way up the valley floor, only 56 miles from the end now. Normally this was where the headwinds came roaring, and made you find out just how badly you wanted to finish this race...but this year, there was nothing. I was shocked. I was sure we'd had a tailwind all the way to Osoyoos, and now there was nothing - just flat calm air, and open road. If there was ever a day to have a good bike split at IM, this was it. I'd always wanted to break 20mph for the Ironman, and I'd come close in 1999 with a 5:45 - missing the mark by 6 minutes. Now I knew I'd have my chance, I just had to make it stick.

I worked the ups on each roller, shifted to the big ring as soon as I hit the top, and then drank as I attacked the descent on the backside. Both my coach Mike Plumb and IMH Qualifier Joe Foster had told me not to be afraid to go for it here: "You've done the miles, you have to trust that you'll be strong." I dared - I knew I'd have regrets if I wasted this perfect weather on anything but the best ride I could produce.

The rollers passed, and the long, flat, arrow-straight stretch before me was the calm before Cawston - home of the out-and-back. Here you take a hard right turn off the course, and spend the next 10 miles going BACK where you've been. In my previous trips here, I'd always struggled here: I'd let the "out" beat me into riding easily until the turn, only picking it up when I knew I was headed in the "right" direction. This time, I defied myself and shifted UP when I made the turn. Joe Foster had sent me an e-mail that had become my battle plan: "Be STRONG. SUFFER. Let the weakness of others be your strength. THIS is where the race is made." I put my head down, and focused on the next 10 miles - the next 30 minutes.

Riders were leaving as I came in - the were headed for Yellow Lake already, and they were all brilliant stars - the ones that were already going to Kona, or nearly there, only with this day seperating them from what could be. I ignored them - I worked on catching the riders ahead of me that were struggling now, almost 70 miles in. Each rider I picked off I didn't see - I could feel them looking at me, but I didn't want to waver - I was riding hard, acting hard, and becoming hard. Each pedal turn in the out and back brought me more confidence that I COULD push late in this ride - my legs WERE there. I was having the ride I always knew was possible - finally.

When the scattered plastic bags appeared on the road before me, I couldn't believe it - I was at 74 miles and the Special Needs Station already. As I rolled into the turn-around I yelled, "299!" to the volunteers, but they'd already seen me coming - the guy with my bag was already starting his run along the shoulder, knowing this would be a fast grab.

I made the turn, and reached out with my right hand - snagging the bag on the fly. "You're the MAN!" I thanked my volunteer - I desperately didn't want to have to stop here and risk losing my energy, so getting through the pick-up on the move was key. I sat up no-handed, filled my pockets with Pringles, Quick Disc, and a card from Lynda that I would carry all the way to T2 before I'd read it.

Yellow Lake was next on my list - and I was ready for a fight.

Energized by the control I felt I had on my worries for once, I rode doubly hard on the way out - I knew that only the cruel slopes of Yellow Lake were between me and the marathon - my entire race was now down to ONE climb and the run. Perhaps it was a bit simplistic, but it gave me motivation to suffer - I had come too far too well to back off now. Without a watch, I had no idea what kind of pace I was on, but I just knew it was good - I knew it was going to be good, and I couldn't wait to get back into town to know HOW good.

As I exited the out and back towards Keremeos, passing the place I'd stopped and nearly quit the race the year before, I exorcised the doubts the sleet and wind of 2000 had cursed me with: I could do this. I CAN do this. I WILL do this.

Passing Bear's fruit stand, working the 53x19 on the false-flats towards Yellow Lake, I watched as the walls of the valley closed in from both sides, and soon the only way out before me was the endless valley wall and the road that curved up and around, out of sight. I drank where I could, finished the Pringles, and unzipped the skinsuit one last time - the final exam was about to begin.

As I dropped the chain into the little ring, I looked up at the power lines that pointed to the gap at Twin Lakes. "If you can see it, you can get there..." I said to myself. I tucked my head down, and fought gravity's growing pull one more time. As I looked down, the shadow my helmet cast over my lower body let me see the collection of salt I'd amassed for the first time. I'd been replacing it with QD's and Pringles, but clearly the day was getting hotter by the minute. As the sweat flooded down from a brow-pad that had long since welled over, I blinked and squinted through the sting: It wouldn't be long, now.

Yellow Lake looks like it's about 12 miles long on the profile, but the last part is what you really notice: The last 2 miles that switch back and forth to Twin Lakes, and over the top. I knew I was getting close - I could HEAR the crowd, and they were in full force and volume. As I entered the canyon of noise, I lost myself in the pain, effort, and ecstasy of it all. I was out of the saddle, gasping for breath, fighting to keep the gear turning over...and people were just SCREAMING for all of us on that last grind. The chalk below my wheels turned the road into a Matisse-like color wheel, and through it all I never wanted it to end. I was alive, having the race of my life, nearly at the top of the worst climb of the day, falling back on the words of one of my old cycling teammates from roadie days gone by: "Take your pain! Take your pain! Pain is power - it's good! Take your pain!"

The crowd parted away...and I knew that the climb was over. I was shelled at the top, and I looked down for a moment when I fumbled the shift up, reading the message, "Go Go GO Eric Weiss!" Amy had been there - and for the first time all day I wondered just where Mr. Weiss was. I figured I'd see him soon enough, maybe. Was I having a race good enough that he might not run me down? I could only hope - after our 4:51 and 4:58 finish at Tupper Lake (PR's for both of us), I knew he was probably coming on strong.

As the final little rise disappeared behind me and I began the plunge towards Penticton, I couldn't't believe I was already near the end of the bike. When I was in the backseat of the car on Friday covering this same road, I wondered to myself, "What will I think about on Sunday when I get here?" The answer was, "Where has this day gone? How did I get here so quickly?" Time was rushing by - a sign that this was a very special race. Present only in one moment at a time, they'd all gone by without any sense of time between them.

Plunging down the swoops and soars of the descent, the crystal hue of Skaha Lake loomed below. On the other side, the marathon was already well under way for the top pros, but I couldn't see anything headed up the road just yet. The salt on my lenses made it tough to see anything, really, so I brought my focus on the road before me.

Down, down, down, past the Airport, past the families soaking in the sun on Skaha Lake Beach, and left past the "Welcome to Penticton" sign - I had made it. With 2 miles to go I downshifted to give my legs a few minutes of recovery and easy spinning - a time loss that I could live with. I was mentally rehearsing my transition already, and I couldn't wait to get off the bike and get to the run. Not that I expected to tear up a 3:xx or even 4:xx marathon, but the day was going so well, I just wanted to keep that groove going all the way through the 26.2.

I entered the massive crowds riding no handed, waving and saluting like I'd won something - like a Tour Champion entering Paris. Maybe I'll never get to Kona, maybe this will be my last Ironman, but for today - for right now - that was the best damn bike ride I've ever produced. I rode down the aisle to the waiting catchers, stopped, and patted Apollo on the bars as they took her away: "You were awesome today!"

Bike Split: 5:32:01 - Average Speed: 20.2 miles per hour. If I never do it again, I can say I did it once - another "If only..?" banished from my mind forever.

As I wobbled towards the transition tent, I was surprised at how wobbly I was. I knew my legs would be a little iffy right off the bike but I felt like I needed to sit down, so I did as soon as I got to the tent. I read the card from Lynda (as promised), laughed, and peeled off my cycling shoes. As I emptied my T2 Bag, there was another note from Dave - also stapled (why didn't I check before?). Back in the bag - another promise for my friend's long-distance support. On went the socks, the shoes, the snacks...and then there were the ears.

Lynda and I had gone to Disneyworld in May, and we'd picked up head-band "Tigger" ears as a lark. We brought them with us to Ironman, thinking we'd wear them in the Splash and Dash...but that didn't happen. As I packed my T2 bag on Friday I asked her, "What do you think would happen if I wore these out of Bike to Run?" She looked at the ears, and looked at me with one of those, "Oh, my GOD..." smiles that dared me to do it, and wondered at the same time "Everytime I think I've seen it all...?"

The ears went in the bag. Now there were at my feet, and I didn't have time to think about it.

I stuffed my Timex run hat in my pocket, squiggled the ears over my head, and ran up to the latrine to pee before I started the run. Of course, my ears stuck up above the plastic curtain while I took care of business, and I heard someone in the bike lot go, "Oh, dude. Check out that guys head!" I grinned - I'd made the right choice. I turned away from the tent, went down the steps, and out onto the grass to meet the marathon - head(ear)first.

As soon as I was outside, the volunteers erupted laughing: "Look out! Here comes TIGGER!" They all smiled and laughed, and I laughed right back. The smile made my body light (no small feat), and it was infectious. I skidded to a halt at the sunblock station, loaded up, and took off to meet the crowd in 254th position - higher up than I'd ever been in my life. Race time was at 6:40 - I was shoulder to shoulder with the best in my Age Group, at least for a little while...although not quite as seriously.

As soon as I hit the road, Race Announcer Mike Reilly picked me up: "Look at this guy! Look at this guys hat! Do you like this guys ears? C'mon!" The crowd responded to his charge with a roar, and I just reared back and laughed to the sky - waving with both hands to everyone. Their energy was flowing, and I was taking every drop that I could get. I turned the corner and headed up Main Street savoring the reactions, double-takes, smiles, and points of people as they tried to figure out just what in the world I'd put on my head.

I was looking for Lynda, Tricia, and Amy, and Tricia was the first to yell to me: "BOB!" They were on the other side of the road! They were also now somewhat hysterical. "Yes, that's my husband. The 6 foot, 190 pound Clydesdale...with Tigger Ears." I blew Lynda a kiss, and trotted up the road, grinning like never before on a marathon.

I'd barely made it up the road 1 mile, when there he was. Spinning in with ease and grace after a nice Sunday torching of the OK valley, Eric and his Red Cervelo had blistered the windless bike as well as I'd ever seen him do it. He waved, and I waved back, remembering the scene from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid when Paul Newman and Robert Redford kept getting caught by the cavalry no-matter what they did: "Who ARE those guys? They're good!"

As I came up to mile 2, I remembered that I hadn't put any sunblock on the TOP of my head - a head that was now 88% exposed since the ear-band only covered a 1-inch wide strip from one side to the other. A quick stop for another dab of SPF 30 for the noggin, and amid cheers of, "Go Tigger, GO!" I bounced up the road, still feeling great.

I was having the best time, and I knew that I would most likely PR on the day - it was a question of by how much. If I could run a 4:20 marathon - just 10 minute miles - I could finish in 11:00 flat. A 4:40? 11:20. I had to try it - I had to run until I could run no more; that was the only way to seal this deal. As the crowds thinned out a bit and the cries of, "Here comes TIGGER!" became farther and farther apart, I put my Timex hat on to keep the sweat and sun away...and plopped the ears right back on top. They were giving me energy from the crowd, and I was committed now - all the way. Goofy (well, Tigger) ears and all - I'd run this marathon to the end.

I finally saw Peter Reid coming back into town nearly an hour into my run - at mile 6 the lead vehicle came into sight, a good 2 miles farther than I'd met the Chuckie V train in 1999. Peter looked calm, focused, and robotic. Second place was nowhere to be seen - Olivier Bernhard didn't roll into view until nearly 5 minutes later. He looked smoother than Peter, but I didn't think there'd be enough real estate to close the gap.

After 6.5 miles of non-stop, steady running I finally had to stop - I'd caught a nasty case of poison ivy before I'd left last week (it required a cortisone shot that left me a bit edgy), and the Champion Chip was eating right into one of my last-to-heal patches. I stopped, bent over, and switched the chip to the other ankle. Just stopping was wonderful - my legs seemed to gasp, "Ahhh!" at the pause - so I bounded right back into a run, albeit somewhat slower then before. I wasn't feeling quite as spry as when I'd left town, but that was normal - this was an Ironman, after all. I slowed down a bit, but kept right on running.

However, I did notice that there were some ripples on the lake now - a tailwind had finally started to puff from Penticton, and it was just enough to raise the temperature on the way out to what I would call almost "Africa Hot." I'd never been on the run course this early, and had never experienced the sunshine reflecting off Skaha Lake between 2 and 3 in the afternoon.

Damn. Let me tell you. It's HOT.

I made a point of walking through every aid station now, trying to take on Gatorade and water. I hadn't peed since I'd left T2, and I was waiting to have to go again. I knew it should come soon, or else I might be at risk of getting behind on hydration so I kept pounding the fluids, and walking farther and farther with each aid station. Coach Mike had warned me, "Try not to walk more then 10 seconds each time - 10 seconds can turn into 15 into 30 into a minute, and then you'll never get back to speed." I was already pushing it, but I had to drink, right?

By mile 9, the hills into OK falls began, as did my struggles to keep from walking up them. Just as I was having a tough moment, down the hill came a certain goatee'd triathlete I'd come to know and respect...right where I'd hoped he would be.

"GOOOOORRRRDOOOO!!!! GO GO GO GO GO GO GO!" Since 1999 Gordo Byrn had gone from an 11 hour finisher, to a 10 hour finisher, to a 9 hour finisher, to a neo-pro. He'd remarked to me at the Awards Banquet in 2000, "You know, I think I'd look good in a yellow jacket." The yellow jackets are given out to the top-10 Pro's in the race, and can't be bought anywhere. You get a yellow jacket, and you're dressed like Bowden, Reid, Blake, Wanklyn, Drake, Harrington, Velupek - you're someone.

Gordo was in 8th. "Manteau Jaune!" I cried - the French name he'd come up with when I asked him if it would be like a Maillot Jaune - the Tour de France lead jersey. I was so happy for him - I just hoped he could hold it together back into town: There were so many miles to go yet.

After Gordo, the fast guys started coming down the hill too quickly to scan them all. I was looking for Wade Blomgren - he'd have to be up there sooner or later. Mile 10, Mile 11, Mile 12...I know I'm not this close to him, DRAT - missed him. By now, I was really starting to feel the effects of my ride - my legs were no longer chipper, bouncy, and full of life. Spectators were still clapping and loving the ears, and that kept my spirits up...but I had a feeling that I was now going to be paying for my 5:32 with interest.

I was walking the hills already, and running the flats and downhills was getting harder and harder. Despite this, I was totally lucid: It wasn't a bonk, and it wasn't dehydration (even though I STILL hadn't peed), it was just my legs getting slower, and slower, and slower...and I knew as I headed up towards the turnaround and Special Needs, it would only be a matter of time before I saw my best friend and arch-enemy on the road to OK Falls.

In 1999 he caught me at the Special Needs station, and I saw him coming as I walked backwards. As I approached the bags, I tried to remember what his number was. 54something. 548? No...545...no...

"Five-FORTY-TWO!" Called out the volunteer. That was it! Huhm? Err...

I looked back, and there he was - same time, same place, different year. "Who is that guy? He's good." I thought - again. He waved, and I waited for him. "You again? How could you do this to me TWICE, you goober?" I asked. "How are you feeling?"

"Not so good. I actually was trying to shush the volunteer so I could sneak up on you..." He answered. "My stomach isn't feeling so great, I don't know why."

"Well, see if anything in your bag might help settle it - you've got plenty of time to get it right." I posed, hoping to raise his spirits.

We made the turn together as we had in 1999, and started back for home - 13.8 miles to go (with the changed finish now). I could barely run, and strangely, Eric was staying right with me. I couldn't figure it out - was he really feeling that bad? I could barely manage an 11-minute mile now - Eric ran 9's all through IM-USA in 2000, so I knew he was capable of far better...but he HAD ridden one heckuva bike split. We had pushed each other all our careers, and today it was no different: I tried to bury him on the bike, and he refused to quit. So here we were, grumpy old triathletes, just trying to get home.

Amazingly, he dropped off my shoulder. At mile 14, I walked the aid station and waited for him. We started out together again, and once more he dropped off. I was shuffling as much as running - faster runners were passing me in droves now. I was wondering why Eric hadn't re-caught me, but I wasn't too worried. I figured he'd just walk through his bad patch, and we'd finish together like we had in 1999. He was in his 6th IM, and knew what to do when it got ugly. Sure enough he caught back up just before mile 15, but told me, "Go on. Run your race - don't wait for me."

"Okay...Hang in there!" I replied, without even looking back. I knew he'd be back, but I knew if I stopped I might have a hard time running, even as slowly as I was going now. I left it up to Eric to get back - I was busy fighting my own battle now.

In hindsight after the race was all over, Joe Foster and I figured out what was happening to me: On top of the aggressive ride, I'd barely managed to take in 350 calories per hour on the bike. Someone my weight actually needs closer to 600 calories per hour, so my shortfall (all things being equal) would mean that I would run out of stored fuel at about mile 16.

Mile 16 came, and the bottom fell out, big-time. My walking breaks turned into a half mile, and I didn't care. I saw Rick Smith headed out the other way as I was shuffling in a heap, and managed to give him a "Good job!" He told me the same, but I was feeling very much lousy at the moment. Mark Markley came next, and he didn't even notice my floppy ears (that had somehow lost their spring as I lost mine). He tapped his stomach and shook his head as he walked the other way, and I understood: The same stomach issues that made him dry-heave all the way through IM-USA were back, again. Never in training - only in racing - the ultimate frustration for him. I had signed him up for this race, and I felt bad for him...clearly, this was not the day I'd hoped he was going to have.

My head dropped, but in doing so I saw my shadow behind me...and remembered I was still wearing the ears. My shadow looked damned silly with those ears sticking up like that, and I laughed. It made me feel better for the moment, and I carried on.

I was running into the sun now, and it was getting harder and harder to see who was coming at me. However, people that would eventually finish in 15, 16, and 17 hours were parading out...and laughing out loud at my fashion statement. People that were starting to suffer were looking up, and smiling, and I'd smile back at them. "Atta' way! Keep smiling! You'll make it!" I'd cheer. It was the least I could do - they still had so many miles to go...

Rick Kaselj gave the best reaction of all: "BOB! Yeah! You wore them! Alright! Hang on..." He rummaged through his pockets and snapped a picture, laughing all the way. Rick once ran a marathon carrying a cowbell to cheer for people, so I knew he understood...I think. Despite all the good energy, I was dragging home two very dead legs now.

I carried on, shuffling, walking, plodding, and getting towards town one step at a time. I passed mile 20 and the "Welcome to Penticton" sign, knowing that it was only going to be another hour and a half at most...so long as I could keep things moving. Miles 21 and 22 dragged by, but I was getting near town now - I could almost hear the finish line off in the distance, as the sun began to flirt with the highest peaks in the Western Valley.

But as the sun dropped lower, Tony Lyons jogged by headed out...followed by Ron Gilcreast (who had made the swim cutoff by a mere 50 seconds to become the last rider on the road...until he passed nearly 100 people on the bike), and then Jeff Campbell. Then there were a few desperate looking folks that were beyond the power of humor and Tigger Ears...and then the sight I didn't want to see.

The ambulance. The sweep. The Voiture Balai - The Broom Wagon. The end of the race - the moving line that represented the bike cutoff at 5:30pm.

Mike and Kim were not there, and now they weren't going to be.

After waiting to see if they'd make it all day long my heart just sank, like it did when I knew that Kathy Majteka had missed it in 1999. Kim had so desperately wanted to finish this race, and now I knew it wasn't going to happen. There was nothing I could do to help, nothing I could say, nothing I could think. It's not an easy race - it never is. I muttered, "Damn..." to myself for each sluggish step in the shadows of the valley, and carried on the best that I could. Missing Mike and Kim reminded me of someone else I cared about that was AWOL: Where the heck was Eric in all this? I needed someone to cheer me up, and he wouldn't let me get bummed - he was always good at that. How could he have not caught me yet?

I was glad I wasn't wearing a watch now - my splits might depress me. I asked someone at the mile 22 aid station, "What time is it?" She looked at her watch and said, "6:30pm." Oh, well. So much for an 11:30. At least it was going to be downhill now...all the way into town. With only 4.2 miles to go, I knew I could pick it up a little here and still salvage a PR - that would come before 12:39, so I knew that was safe.

I slugged up the last long false-flat past the church of IHATEGRAVITY (not it's real name, but that's what I think of whenever I see it), I dropped through the zig-zag at the Mohawk station with 3 miles to go. The sun was just at the peaks - I might get that daylight finish! As I trotted down Main Street now, I could SEE everything like I had in 1999, but it was brighter - no clouds. The shadows were stretching across the street from the building tops, but there was still sun flirting with me!

The finish used to be along Main Street to the Lakeside, with a quick left to the line. Now it's out on Lakeshore and back, but not before the crowd carries you all the way there...and they were carrying me like I couldn't believe. I was picking the pace up - not much, but enough to start passing people in the final miles. I'd cheer them on, "C'mon - you're not going to let a guy with these EARS on his head pass you, are you?"

Most people saw the ears and ran like hell, or just stopped and waited for me to get a safe distance away.

"Look at this..." I thought to myself. "Drink this up with both eyes!" 2 miles to go at Ironman, and I was taking in every last second of it. After a summer of training, the entire day was reduced to the last 20 minutes, and I didn't want them to end. Once you know you're going to finish an Ironman - once that second really hits where you KNOW it's yours - the time never goes by slowly enough. Joy stronger then any drug - life in concentrate. Happiness you can't explain, but it will stay with you, always.

I made the turn by the Hog's Breath for the 5th time, and headed down to Lakeshore Drive...listening to the music, feeling the party, knowing that I'd be there in less then a mile. I wouldn't get in under 12-hours, but I didn't care about time now - I was going to finish, I was going to finish in daylight, and I was going to finish RUNNING, with these damn silly, salt and sunblock coated ears on my head.

I'd also promised to take Lynda across the line if she wanted to, but she wouldn't be able to tell me until I got to her at 26 miles, 185 yards (not that I wasn't already thinking about it or anything). As I stepped on the bright red "25" painted on the road, Mike Reilly was exhorting people in: "C'mon! You can break 12! You've got 12! Go! GO!"

I missed sub-12 by a mile, literally.

As I turned onto Lakeshore and AWAY from the finish line, I was scanning left and right for Lynda and her parents. They saw me first (I can't imagine how), and screamed louder then the PA - loud enough for every Bob in the Okanagan Valley to turn his head and wave. I tossed both hands in the air, and then pointed at my head (as if they hadn't picked up on it), laughing. I told Lynda, "Get ready! I'll be back in 10 minutes!"

Just then, Bruce Grant and Tricia came flying out of the crowd on my side of the road, and ran up alongside me. I felt like I had a fighter-plane escort, and they were both beaming for me. "DUDE! You're gonna' PR!" grinned Bruce, as Tricia countered, "You look great!" "Thanks, guys! I've really struggled these last 10 miles...but I guess I'll be alright from here!" I stammered.

"We'll drop off and wait for you at the finish! Finish strong!" Commanded Tricia (Jurgen/Tinley style), and with that they were gone. Of course, I'd picked up the tempo with the adrenaline and somehow forgotten to breathe while I was babbling along. In less then a 1/2 mile I was completely hobbled by the mother of all side-stitches, and at the Sicamous - at the turn, I doubled over and tried to work it out. I looked up at the D.J. spinning tunes and waved, "Give me a minute!" As I walked past massaging my abdomen, bent over like I was looking for a lost contact. Half a mile to go now: I can do this.

As I trucked along Lakeshore towards the music, the party, and the voice of Mike Reilly, I could still see traces of sunlight on the high Eastern Peaks - I would have my daylight finish for sure, and that was enough. After all I'd been through, after the previous 4 IM's, I'd be going out on the fastest one yet. I'd gotten everything out of my body that I could have today, and now there was only one thing left to do: Just like with my mother in Lake Placid in 2000, I had to show someone the race from my point of view.

As I approached 200 yards to go, there she was. I asked her, "Are you coming?", desperately hoping she'd say so...

"Yep! Let's go!" She took my hand, and off we went - I made sure we fell into stride right away so she couldn't get nervous and run back on me.

We entered the blue carpeting, the fences, and then the endless rows of people. Ahead I could see the big Blue finishing arch at the end of the tunnel of light and noise, and I didn't want the moment to end. As we held hands when the sun first rose on the day to be, we held fast as it painted it's last streaks across the sky - another 140.6 was down to only a few precious seconds now.

"Who can say where the road goes, Where the day flows, only time..."

I squeezed Lynda's hand, and looked one final time at the orange skies above.

"Who can say if your love grows, as your heart chose, only time..."

"Who can say when the roads meet, That they might be, In your heart..."

I remember thinking, "Please slow down. Please, slow this moment down...please...just a little more...not the line...not just yet...I don't want us to get there yet...I've worked so hard for so long...don't let this end..."

The volunteers stretched the banner across the road. Our steps fell together, and our arms rose towards the heavens. I stopped running one step before the line, trying to defy the pull of time to the last second. The bittersweet border of those inches - the line that separates the ecstasy of the present from the memories to be...it's never long enough for anyone who has covered the distance.

With everything that mattered the world to me by my side, that last moment is one I want to remember until they close the lid on this life. Time would say that this day was 12:14:17 long. In a sport where we're always trying to be faster and faster, it wasn't nearly long enough.

To me, as long as she was there with me when it ended, I'd have stayed out there until midnight if I could have, stepping across the line at one second to midnight. Maybe we'll do that another time, but for now the finish was behind us - the moment was finished, and so were my legs. My hamstrings cramped as soon as I'd hopped across the line, and Lynda held me up - as she always did when I stumbled.

It was over - it was gone. So fast, so fleeting. The beaming face of Liza Wyle came running up to catch me, and another volunteer pointed the way for Lynda to leave the madness of the finish line. "I'll be out soon!" I beamed, and with a salty kiss goodbye, Lynda went off to meet up with her parents.

I sank into a chair, and Liza handed me a bottle of Gatorade. I was still, and lost in my own racing thoughts. In the middle of the booming noise of the finish line, I was replaying images from the day in my mind - trying to remember what I'd just done, what I'd seen, what I'd felt. I didn't want it to end - I wasn't ready to let this day go.

I took my first sips, and waited for Eric to come in as my arms began to tingle. The shock of stopping so suddenly was coursing through my body, and I held my Mylar blanket against the growing goosebumps on my skin.

As it always does the clock kept marching forward, unfeeling, unthinking. The names and faces kept coming to the end as they would until Midnight, some rushing, some taking the time to make it last. My story was finished, but so many more were still writing theirs, perhaps wishing the time would pass quickly, then hoping it would stop when they got there so they could savor the long kiss goodnight from the line.

I looked down at my fourth maple leaf medal in my hand, and baptized it with my own tears...while I waited for my friend to come home and join me.