Welcome Home.
July 25, 1999
The
wind whistled through my ears, and the rattle and hum of the pavement had
progressed from a gentle hum into a full-on shriek.
As my eyes teared up from the speed I tightened my grip even more,
willing my nerves to hold on just a little bit longer.
Plunging downhill towards the final curve, it looked like there was
simply no way to get around it...and I let out a whoop of delight, terror, and
adrenaline all at once. Thankfully,
really didn't need to worry about it since I wasn't driving.
That
was left up to a trusty pilot at the front of the Bobsled, while I sat at the
back - wrapped tightly around my soon-to-be father-in-law, and with the brakeman
wedged in behind me. Entering the
finish curve somewhere in the neighborhood of 50mph, the sled slammed up the
banking, and the horizon became completely vertical in an instant.
I could feel the G's compressing me into the sled, and for one awful
instant I thought I'd been reduced to nothing more than a red Biebe Sledding
Helmet on top of a pair of Teva's...but just as quickly as we slammed up the
turn our sled was spat out onto the flat. The 'FINISH' sign whipped overhead, and the brakeman did his
job to stand the sled on it's nose as I took my first breath in what seemed like
hours. The entire ride had only
been 40 seconds...but it was long
enough
for me to gain permanent respect for these guys.
"Whew!"
Was all I could say. At
least the descent into Keene wouldn't make me feel like a sock in a dryer when
it was all over. Actually, the
descent into Keene would make me feel worse than that sock, but for completely
different reasons than speed and vertigo.
Arriving
in Lake Placid on Tuesday, I had been met with the sight of the newly-christened
Hillcrest Avenue Fraternity House, the home base that Mr. Eric Weiss had been
smart enough to suggest we rent when the LP Visitors bureau decided that
doubling the Hotel Rates and instituting a 5-night minimum stay was a good idea.
For less money than that we'd have a kitchen, a hot tub, a Barbecue, and
6 bedrooms within strolling distance of Main Street.
It was one less thing to worry about, and in this third go-around at the
Ironman distance I was determined to keep the stress-level as low as I could.
As Lynda and I unpacked the car of her 2 bags and my 37 bags (plus one
portable bike shop), Mark Markley and Beth arrived finishing their haul from
D.C. in good shape. After moving
into our respective rooms, Mark decided that a trip to the local bike shop
(Placid Planet) was in order to get some tubes.
This
was Mark's first IM, and I was keeping an eye on him.
Not that he needed any help, but I had been somewhat responsible for him
taking the IM-Needle hit last year, so I was going to be there as much as I
could this week. Mike Plumb had
coached him into IM shape for sure...but the reality of race week can overwhelm
even the most stoic IronVirgins like nothing else, so I was going to try and
make sure that nobody in my house repeated my 5-day-progressive-meltdown in 1998
at IMC.
Sure
enough as we went to leave the shop, the key in Mark's car promptly stuck in the cylinder...turning his already troublesome LS into a 3700
pound blue paperweight. We called
the Saturn folks, and they said they'd be more than happy to tow the car...to
Burlington, Vermont. Mind you, this
'tow' would involve 200 miles of driving and a Ferry Ride (!) across Lake
Champlain...and I watched Mark's calm veneer turn to a small sneer...and then
the cell phone went flying...and I knew it was intervention time.
I
walked over to Beth and Mark and said "Sorry, I need to borrow your
Ironman." On a normal day this
would be no big deal, but when you're 700 miles from home, your car won't start,
and you're doing your first Ironman in 5 days?
Little things like getting a Diet Pepsi instead of a Pepsi with dinner
can cause a breakdown like you're watching the final scene of "Steel Magnolias"
while listening to the soothing harmonies of Pink Floyd's "The Final
Cut". I jumped in and did all
I could to stop the angst train:
"Dude
- we have a spare car. You're
already here. It's not Sunday. You're not at a rest stop on the Thruway.
If it had to break, this was the best place to do so...and look, we've
even got a great sunset to watch!" as I spun him around like a Muppet to
see.
Mark
looked at me, then mock wept on my shoulder, going "AUGH!
Thanks. I so needed
that."
One
virgin saved from the brink - alright! It
was a small Karmic repayment...but every little bit helps.
As fate would have it, the call for a tow-truck had been intercepted by a
local mechanic on his way home for dinner.
He whipped his car around and showed up at Placid Planet like the
mysterious tow-truck in the middle of nowhere in "Michael".
"Heard you got some trouble! I
called my buddy - he's a locksmith, and he's on his way."
7
minutes later, the locksmith arrived. One
jiggle by some trained hands, and Mark's car started.
No charge from anyone. They
wished us luck, and disappeared as fast as they had arrived. It was dizzying, wonderful, and so small town...it was
perfect.
Over
dinner back at the homestead (while all of this drama was occurring Lynda and
Eric had headed to the local market to secure 2 days worth of food that we'd
polish off in one night) we raised a glass to the happy ending, and to the hopes
for more good luck in the coming days, as Tom Downs, Michael Parente, and David
Barclay would all be making their respective arrivals to our little abode.
The
house would serve as a place to eat, relax, meditate, soak, think, work, repair,
replace, laugh, cry, brood, read, hang, watch, wonder, wait, worry, and seek
peace when it all got to be too much. It
was just an empty building before...but now it was filled with hopes beyond
description, and suddenly alive like a child that has seen the recess door open
after a long
day
at school.
Welcome
to Ironman week, friends.
Enjoy
your stay.