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Mother's Day.

July 30, 2000

For the first time I can remember, I didn't wake up before my alarm clock for the triathlon equivalent of Christmas in July.  At 4:15am I was in the middle of a dream that I was heading up, down, looping left, looping right, soaring and diving like I was on some big, big dipper...and then I realized that The Ohio Players "Love Roller Coaster" was trying to get my brain to leave REM and come to reality.  I whacked the snooze bar... it was just too early for funk to enter my head.

I sat up in bed and perked one ear towards the window like a dog listening for a can opener, only to hear...nothing.  No pitter-patter of raindrops. It was too dark to see anything, but so far, so good.  Of course, it would be nearly 21 hours before I would see this bed again...and the warm covers and soft pillow that had seen me toss and turn all night laughed to my back as my feet hit the cold floor...and I staggered towards the hallway, squinting at the light already on in the bathroom. The residents of the Hillcrest Avenue Triathlon Frathouse awoke for their Final Exam one by one...with no words needing to be spoken between them.

Lynda knew full-well I was usually in quiet mood on race-day, and she just sat back and let me do whatever I needed to do.  She didn't say anything when I went to go pee, and then came back - having forgotten to put my contacts in...wondering why everything was so damn fuzzy.  I got dressed, picked up my special needs bags, and headed downstairs, but not without knocking on everyone's doors first.  Mark was already up, and we exchanged a quick nod as we passed.  I knocked on Tom's door, and he was already up and moving.  Master Barclay: "Hey - thanks.  The race is today, right?" Michael: "Hey!  See you downstairs!" *boingboingboingboing*

God...how does he do that?

David and I looked at Eric's door:  No light.  No sounds of motion.  We had made a pact that nobody gets left behind, or has Dave had said the night before "We agree to mutual door-banging if in doubt, right?"  With this in mind, I nonchalantly pounded the crap out of Eric's door...and in a matter of seconds was greeted with one sleepy and cross lawyer:

"What do you want?"

"Hey.  It's 4:30."

"Yeah?  My alarm is set for 5:00."

"We're leaving at 5:15..."

"I know.  My alarm is set for 5:00."

With that, Eric shuffled back into the darkness like a Mummy looking for his coffin, and I figured that my work as a wake-up service was done.  I headed downstairs for a light breakfast of toast, Quic Disc, and leftover pancakes from last night's "Breakfast for Dinner" last meal.  In the kitchen, the mood was one like pilots waiting for the siren to go off in the ready room: There was no conversation.  Mark was eating some cereal, and looking at the floor.  Michael was sipping coffee, and leaning on the counter.  Tom swept through to grab his bottles from the fridge, and disappeared.  Lynda and Beth...they just watched the entire scene from a distance, while getting themselves ready to take the troops down the hill.  At precisely 5:10, Mr. Weiss and Amy made their way downstairs...and Eric greeted me with his usual grace: "Good morning. God, I hate you."

Outside the first light of the day was starting to appear...but it seemed strangely muted.  The ground was wet from the persistent rains the night before...but there was something new in the air that we hadn't seen all week:  Fog.  A thick blanket of fog cut visibility down to about 50 feet - a swingset across the street no more than 100 feet away couldn't be seen – and as we all headed down the front steps, nobody said anything.

Nobody had to.

Lynda and Beth drove the caravan down about 1/2 mile to the barricades...and we all hopped out to start the walk down the hill to the Oval.  I kissed Lynda goodbye...and she could see that my eyes were less than at peace. "At least it isn't rain, right?" she said...and I couldn't argue with that fact...but as we walked down the hill into the mist, there was nothing but the gentle stepping sounds of feet on wet pavement around us, as the fading streetlights above lit the scene of athletes heading down the hill in a soft, spooky light.  Off in the distance the race announcer could be heard in the unseen Oval as Enya's "Shepherd Moons" played in the background:

"Good Morning, triathletes....the time is now 5:35, and we've got a little under an hour and a half to start time...body marking is happening now at the entrance to the Athletes Village..."

Here is where the group split up - It usually happens at Ironman:  You've got your own personal list of things to do, an no two people approach their morning routine the same way.  I didn't get a chance to say goodbye to Eric, Tom, or Michael...but there was just no time to feel bad.  Mark somehow managed to stay by my side, and after getting marked we headed in to check out bags together.  I was glad to have a friend there, and he was probably glad to be by my side, too...although he sure didn't look like a man about to do his first Ironman.  He was as cool as Chuck Yeager in 'The Right Stuff'; "Ho, hum.  Another day, another test flight."

We made sure our bags were dry and ready.  I woke up Apollo, filled the JetStream, and peeled away the bags that Amy and Eric had used to quickly cover the drivetrain for me on Saturday.  I checked on Mark, and he was finished at the same time.  A quick run through to drop off all the little notes I had written the night before in people's 'Bike to Run' bags...then the drop off of our Dry Strip bags - and it was time to walk to the lake.

"Good Morning Athletes...the time is now 6:20am, and you should be thinking about heading for the lake..."  droned the announcer, still with Enya lilting in the still foggy background.  I was getting nervous now, and I almost wanted him to come on and say "Good Morning!  Are you all scared to death?  GOOD!  You should be!  What you're about to do is CRAZY!  NUTS!  We're talking 'time for a 12-step program' crazy, okay?"  With the buzzing of triathletes in the  background like 1000 damp little bees, Mark and I headed for the start...and to drop off our special needs bags.

This was the only real drag the whole morning - after having dropped your Dry Strip bag off (with all your warm up clothes, and more importantly your shoes) you need to walk about 1/3 mile in bare feet to drop your bags off on Mirror Lake Drive.  We walked, and we walked, and we walked...and still didn't see the drop off.  To our left we should have seen the lake which was all of 50 feet away, but it might has well been a cliff - we couldn't see a thing.  I began to fear that there was no way they'd start this race on time... and I warned Mark: "Try not to get too hyped up yet.  They'll probably delay the start a bit to let this lift.  I don't see how they can start us in this soup...it's worse than Seaside in 1996..."

I felt bad to say that, but I wanted him to be ready for anything.  Of course, the race announcer was now on the dock, unseen from shore somewhere in the mist, sticking to his guns.  "It's now 6:40am, and we're about 20 minutes away from the start of the Isuzu Ironman USA Triathlon...."  I was ready for a delay, and I couldn't help but get annoyed at his good mood. "Who is he kidding!  I can't see the first God #($*&! buoy...where the hell are we going to go?" I thought...I was scared, nervous, and really worried that they might cancel the swim outright if it stayed this bad - and that made me worry about Tom, Mark, Rick, and Michael.  Like a parent wanting everything to go right for a child, I didn't want them to have to deal with this on top of the normal race fears - it was just too much.

With 15 minutes to go, Mark and I went our separate ways.  He had found Beth and his parents in the crowd, and he went to go say goodbye.  At the same time, I had been scanning the crowd looking for my mom, Lynda, her parents, or anyone else I knew.  With time ticking away, I was starting to come to terms with the fact that I might not see them...and I'd be starting the day without having said my final good-byes.  I was simply standing still, looking off into the unending mist on the lake, trying to find some happy place to put my burdened mind...when suddenly to my left a voice shouted "ROBERT! STOP!"  It was Frank.  Frank is a New York City Cop, and when he yelled I instinctively put my hands up and froze, waiting for the cuffs to hit my wrists.  He had been scanning the crowd with his handicam, and had spotted me - a single seal in the midst of an endless sea of neoprene.  He grabbed a walkie/talkie he'd given my mother...and keyed her like a search party reports to home: "I found him!  I found him!  He's behind the dock, in front of the flags at the start...."

In under a minute, everyone I cared about was there...and my mother stood before me in a shirt she'd made for the day as a surprise: "Hurricane Bob's Mom", complete with matching hat.  She was adorable!  Lynda took my hand, and we walked down towards the gate.  With one last kiss goodbye, I turned away feeling much lighter...and headed into the corral.  It looked like 3/4ths of the field was standing on the beach...waiting.  A few were in the water, so I strode in to get a good place on the line.  Right before I did I saw Rick Denney, and wished him well with the words "Just take your time starting - no need to jump in."  With a handshake, I left him to his own thoughts...and got ready to face my own.

Surrounded by 1700 people but feeling strangely alone, I was lined up less than 10 feet behind the flag line.  There was nobody behind me due to the crowd still on the beach, so I knew I was in the best position for an Ironman Swim I'd ever had.  My goal was to be near an hour - or break it if possible, and this was a good first step.

"Ladies and Gentleman - please, our National Anthem."  droned the speakers. The fog was still present, but despite my doubts I thought "Are they really going to start this thing?" as the lyrics echoed across the silent surface of Mirror Lake...and it hit me:  I can SEE the surface.

"Oh say can you see...by the dawns early light..."

The sun - the sun began to appear above the trees.

"What so proudly we hailed...at the twilight's last gleaming..."

Before our very eyes, the fog began a last minute rush to lift.  Like a curtain that had been stuck on opening night, the eaves began to part as if possessed, and color and light began to flood into the grey palette of the day.  Around me, voices rose like those at Mission Control during a launch:

"C'mon sun!  Yeah!  Go! Go!  You can do it!  Light it baby, light it!"

I could see the hotels about 300 yards away...

"Through the perilous flight...O'er the ramparts we watched...we're so gallantly streaming..."

I could see the first buoy...

"GO SUN!  YEAH!  WE'RE GONNA' GO, BOYS!  WE'RE GONNA' GO!  God DAMN!"  On the water, the mood accelerated from pensive, to hopeful, to electric.  We could have stood on the surface if we had to.

"O'er the land of the free...and the home, of the ...."

As the athletes and the crowd roared as one, I never heard the last word...but I didn't need to.  I could see almost all the way to the turnaround now....a nd the scene was completed as the ESPN Helicopter swooped in with seconds to spare above the start, blasting away what little mist that dared linger above us.

It was go time.

** BOOM! **  With no countdown, we were off as one, 1800 with one word on their minds:

"Finish."

As I passed under the flags, I playfully leapt up mid-stroke and batted one - a red one.  I settled into my rhythm as quickly as I could.  There was some jostling and bouncing at towards the first buoy, but I was amazed at how smooth we were all moving.  I had finally nailed a start position correctly, and settled into a bunch pretty near my ability.  We moved like a pack of sardines, but we moved at the same speed.  It felt so damn COOL, I couldn't stop smiling.

The course at Lake Placid is the easiest IM Swim in the world.  Why?  How many open water swims have a lane-line?  Yes - a lane line.  The course loops around a US Kayak training and race course, and there are these little foam buoys that mark it...all anchored to a fluorescent yellow line 4 feet below the surface.  Of course, everyone wanted to be on that line, so I got forced to my left no matter how much I steered right.  On top of the line, it was a neoprene mosh pit - and I couldn't figure out why.  When I got my moment I dove hard right and away from the fight, all of 10 feet away.  I had open water, and could see the line pretty well...so I just cruised lap one and watched the WWF Smackdown Swim from a safe distance.

At the turn in 15:04, I knew I was on - I was close to 1-hour pace, and feeling good.  As I turned around the mini-box turn for home a stream of bubbles tickled my face as they rose from below: A diver!  Hanging on the wire just watching the race from a fishy point of view was a lone diver.  I waved - he waved back...and I could see him smiling in his mask.  "Isn't this cool?"  I wanted to say...but I'm sure he was already thinking that.

The sun was out in full force now...and I could see the shore all the way back to finish lap one.  The crowd looked enormous, and it gave me a sense of progress to watch them grow, and grow, and grow as I closed in.  I reminded myself not to run too hard for the brief beach-loop of about 30 feet - and got ready to stand up.

First loop in 30:40 - yahoo!  I promptly forgot my order to myself, and went sprinting around the outside of the group I surfaced with, pumping my fist in the air, screaming a battle cry of joy "WAAAAHHHHOOOOOO!!!"  I passed about 10 people on the short run, and dove in the water to start lap 2 like I'd dove off the block.

BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP Hmm?

Oh.  My Heart Rate Alarm.  It was 145 when I stood...now it's 177.  Go figure.  Nice job.

As I got back into stroke, the brief beach run seemed so loud and colorful and awesome...and now the water was so quiet.  The field had thinned out now - no more fighting for space.  I was able to follow the line all the way out, I was able to wave to Mr. Diver again, and I cruised in to finish Chapter One of Ironman USA in 1:04:02.  Not the 1-hour swim I'd wanted, but certainly good enough.  As I stumbled onto shore I reached for my wetsuit leash...and I couldn't find it.  I knew it was back there somewhere...but my hands weren't listening to my brain: "No, higher.  Okay, lower.  Grab?  Grab it.  No, Grab the leash..."

A volunteer saw me spinning like a broken top, and waved me over "I've got it!"

ZZZIIIP!  "LIE DOWN!"  *SPLUT*  *ZING!* *POP*  "GET UP! HERE! GO!"

That is a wetsuit strip.  Neat , huh?  Running out towards T1, I managed to find my mom, Lynda and her parents, and Frank all at once.  I ran by them, waving and smiling...making sure they all knew I was in good shape.  I was feeling decent, and took my time on the 400 meter run back to the oval.  It was long, and there was no need to hurry here.  Grabbing my bag and heading for the tent...the day was going well.  Sure, there were 138.2 miles to go, but each little victory is to be savored.  I took my time in transition (about 10:20 counting the long run) and got ready to find Apollo and get to some climbing.

I never saw Eric in the tent.  He came out a minute behind, and left 3 minutes ahead.  That would be the only pass for the lead in The Duel on this day.  As I grabbed Apollo and finished the run-out, I passed by Cathy Taylor (who snapped the shot below as I growled past) as she was doing the yeoman's work of volunteering again this year.  Onto the saddle and down the hairpin I go, just 2 laps between me and the marathon.

Headed down the hill to the jangle of cowbells I rode no-handed past Mom, Lynda and everyone else... and plunged down the hill out of sight.  At the bottom I rode into something that made my hair stand on end before I realized what it was: It smelled like an old roadie pile-up from brake rubber being torched at the bottom as we joined Route 73 and headed out East for Keene.  The chaos and din of transition behind me, I started to calm down and settle in for the ride on a course I knew I'd enjoy.

Grinding up the first few rollers of the day, Greg Pressler rolled by me with the biggest, goofiest smile you'd expect from someone who seems to love life as much as any human being could.  "Mr. Bob!  Have fun!" he said as he noodled past.  You'd never think he lost time to a broken foot...if only I rode that fast when *I* was hurt.  The field was suprisingly thin to me - there wasn't the peloton-esque rolling out of town like IMC usually fights, and I figured it was the climbing that split everyone up.

We climbed the first 8 or so miles, and then it was time to hand your E-Ticket to the conductor - the downhill to Keene was at hand.  In 1999 when volunteering, I had pre-ridden this course with Pete Priolo, Cathy Corning, Steve Wyle, and Eric.  On the downhill I was going about 50+mph with Pete, trading tucks and sling-shot passes when I had the greatest scare of my cycling life: A speed wobble.  My bike started a series of amplifying s-curves back and forth, later attributed to a loose headset.  I was as terrified as I could be, almost sure that I was going to die if I totally

lost control...and I felt lucky to have brought my knees together, leaned on the front wheel, and slowed down before the unthinkable happened.

This year I replaced the headset on Apollo the week before IM-USA...just to be safe.

I took a deep breath and tucked down, ready to face the plunge and erase the fear I held by the second loop.  Accelerating through 30...40...near 50 again, I was starting to relax as the bike was as smooth as skiing on new snow, when something happened that would make me forget all about this stupid hill.

What is one second?

One missed gear change...

One drag on the brakes...

One dropped sock in T1...

It is everything and nothing; It makes the difference between a near miss and a collision - between no story and history.  As I was gliding down the hill, a bee was going about his business doing bee things.  At the moment he crossed Route 73 on his flight plan, unfortunately so did I....with my mouth wide open.  The bee was scooped out of thin air, and slammed into the corner of my mouth with an audible *THWAP*.  The impact hurt like hell, and I knew I'd hit a big guy...and I could feel it's little legs grabbing on to my lip to hang on.  Before I could get my hand from the bar to my mouth - "OW! OW! F#*ker!  OWWWW!"  I grabbed the little guy (who was now flapping in the wind, hanging on by his stinger) and flung him off to the right...and involuntarily started rubbing my lip.  Only one problem - I couldn't feel it.

My lips went numb, and then my lower face.  I could feel myself swelling, but with 5 miles of descending to go to Keene, I literally and figuratively had my hands full.  When I got to the bottom and turned left towards Jay...I tried to take a drink from my JetStream...and I felt like I was at the dentist: My mouth wouldn't work.  I couldn't tell when I had my lips on the straw, and stabbed myself in the chin, the nose, and my neck at least 37 times while trying.  People were passing me now...something I hadn't seen too much of on the bike in my career.  I began to feel worse and worse...but I figured that eventually the sting effects would fade, and I'd make it through this bad patch.  I mean, with 97 miles to go...there'd be plenty of time to work it out, right?

20 miles in I was riding slower and slower, and getting passed in a steady stream.  The feeling in my mouth was coming back, though...and I could at least get some fluids in me.  Despite that I was still feeling pretty lousy, and I even started to yawn uncontrollably on the long False Flat towards Wilmington.  At the time I didn't know it, but my body had entered a state referred to as 'Histamine Shock' as it fought my mild allergic reaction to the sting.  In short, all my bodies defenses were being pointed at the bee venom...and part of that is releasing a huge amount of histamine into the bloodstream.  The effect would be like taking 2-shots of Nyquil, and then

getting on your bike.

Just like Mike Plumb at GFT, I now was fighting to stay awake.

Grinding up the 5 miles climb to Wilmington, I was struggling.  On the Haselton out and back I saw plenty of TRI-DRS Jason Jerseys, but I could barely raise my head or wave at them...I just didn't have the energy.  I never saw Eric, but he saw me and couldn't believe I hadn't caught him yet.  I called Stephen Dragoni "Go Mark!" and repeated it when I saw Mark go by 3 miles later: "Go Mark!" figuring I'd be right with one of them.  I just kept on moving, hydrating, and doing what I could to finish the loop and get back to town - how long can one bad patch last, anyway?

As I ground up the 12-miles of stair-step climbing along the Ausable Gorge, I looked at the scenery to try and take my mind off the fact that I felt totally dead on my bike.  I felt like I'd taken a last 110-mile ride the day before...and had to admit to myself that I was in some trouble.  If it had been a training day I'd have bailed and gone home for a nap, to live and fight another day...But here I was on the Great Ironman Stage, and my body was missing it's cue at the worst possible time.  I fought the urge to panic as I made my way over the Cherries, over the Three Bears, and through Special Needs back into town.

I kept thinking "Smile for mom.  You can't let mom see you sick.  You smile, you say hi, and then you cry when you're back out of town, got it?"  I got ready, and wheeled down Main Street - and picked her out immediately.  What was great was the fact that I didn't need to act at all - seeing mom, seeing Lynda, seeing Lynda's Mom, hearing the cowbells...seeing all the chalk they'd put on the road for me; What a boost!  I stopped to say "Hi!" like the riders in the Tour do when they ride through their hometown and kissed everyone.  I asked "Where's Eric?" just wondering if he was okay, and Amy dropped the bomb:

"He's about 25 minutes ahead! He's flying!"

Holy Shit.  I'm really in deep trouble here - and Eric is having the greatest day of his life.  I had just struggled to a 3:17 loop, which meant he'd buzzed town around 2:45.  That's over 20mph - a time I'd expected to nail on a good day.  I knew that I'd never see him until we were having dinner...and I said my good-byes with a wave and a smile as I rolled past the 1980 Rink to start my second lap...

I rode the second loop in a trance.  I was still yawning from time to time - and I thought maybe I'd just not gotten enough sleep during the week.  I made it down the downhill to Keene with no problems - I even tried to boost my spirits riding the last 200 meters no-handed with my arms behind me like I was playing 'Airplane', much to the jangling and clapping of the  crowd...but it didn't help.  I could smile, I could thank volunteers, I could nod thanks to random people clapping...there was no energy to be borrowed, found, or created out there.  Realizing at 75 miles that I could no longer think in terms of speed but survival - I dumped Apollo to the little ring and switched to leg-conservation mode for the run.

Over the climb to Wilmington pedaling in massive, raging squares...free-wheeling whenever the road pointed down...thanking God when I needed to pee so that at least I had an excuse to stop for a little while...I covered the course bit by bit.  On the out and back approaching the 90 mile mark, I saw Eric, and he shrugged a "What happened?" gesture to me.  I just yelled back "Keep going!  You're FLYING!"  and he was.  I was almost 10 miles back...and it was growing.

I knew if I kept it moving I'd be alright, and that's all I thought about as I ground up the Ausable Gorge for the second and final time.  Bailing to my 23-tooth emergency gear, I got over the Cherries, over 2 of the 3 bears, and looked at Papa Bear knowing he was my last big hurdle before the run.  I pedaled with my more of my body weight than my legs, each stroke nothing more than the desperate desire of someone with very little left to give, trying to make it all count.  At the top, I freewheeled at 6mph before making the turn to the lake at 110 miles.  I was almost there...and it was time to gear it down and prepare for the run.

Coming past Mom and the group again, I smiled and said "See you in a few minutes!" as I wheeled past, too afraid to stop for fear that they'd see what bad shape I was in.  Lynda knew - she didn't even need to see my eyes. I was an hour slower than I expected, and she has seen me on the bike enough to know when the tank is empty.  Without scaring my mom, she kept it to herself and crossed her fingers that I'd get through it soon enough as they all headed for the run-out to wait and see me once more.

As I saw the Bike Finish I almost wept with relief, but knew this was no time to get happy - a marathon to come next will do that to you.  Cathy Taylor was there again, and snapped this pic that shows me with this delirious grin, never happier to leave the comfort of Apollo for the run.  Making my way around the oval to the change tents I saw Steve Wyle and gave him a weak smile, and he would later tell Lynda from that look what she already knew; "Bob's having a rough day out there."

When I got my bag and entered the tent, I sat down and just sighed.  I closed my eyes, and the brave face I'd had coming in faded in one deep breath. I was terrified at where I was, with no way out that I could see.  I was exhausted - beyond exhausted.  Taking one step seemed like too much, let alone 26.2 miles that were waiting to finish me off once I left my chair.  A volunteer came over to me and said "Can I get you anything?"  I opened my eyes (after not having known that I'd closed them) and replied "Yes – new legs.  Mine are complete trash."  Without missing a beat he counter-offered; "Sorry - we're back-ordered on legs.  Can I get you some Gatorade?"

I smiled.  MAN I needed to smile right then.  I wanted to hug him, nominate him for a Nobel prize, and ask him his name so I could name my kids after him - all of them.  As I slowly changed I told him my sad story of falling apart on the bike and struggling while getting my #&%! kicked by Eric, "...and most of all, my MOM is here!  Ack!"  He listened to me patiently, and then said "You might feel bad, but you if rode so slowly, now you've got fresh legs for the run - so think of it that way!  Take one step out, then run the first mile and see how you feel, okay?"

I had nothing to lose.  At least I had 9 hours to walk it if I had to.  I shook his gloved hand, and trotted out of the tent with some tentative, uneasy steps.  As fate would have it, Mom and Lynda were waiting at the exit, so I got a chance to stop and rest after only 40 feet.

"Hi!"  I yelled.

"Hi! Wait - Why aren't you running?" Mom asked. A reasonable question.

"I'm tired!  I want a rest.  Hey, everyone?  This is my mom!" I said to the crowd.  In one un-rehearsed yet perfectly synched reply the entire crowd at the run-out came back "Hi Mom!"  She loved it - and it lifted my weary body a little bit more. "I'll see you in about 2 1/2 - 2:45, okay?"  I turned and trotted down Main Street...and did all I could to run that first mile.

Half of it was downhill, so that was easy.  My legs didn't hurt, I just felt DEAD.  Through the first aid station I snagged some pretzels and Gatorade, and kept moving.  I hit mile 1 in about 14 minutes...but that was counting the stoppage time with Mom.  I started breaking the course up into small chapters, just like I had for Rick on Thursday: To the Jumps; To the Turn; Back to the Jumps,. Up the Hill; Town: Repeat.

I walked some.

I ran more.

The nice thing about the run - it's so much easier to socialize at 6mph, and pick out people that you know.  As I passed mile 3, Eric was on his way back at mile 9.  We shared a high-five and passed like two ships in a channel. Next I was passed by Greg Sullivan, a friend of mine from home.  I told him he'd lap me on our last training ride, I just figured it would be when I was at mile 11 - not at mile 3.5  "Hey Bob."  He said.  You never would have guessed he was 9 hours into a 10:06, Kona-bound performance.  Running like a metronome he was gone from sight by the next bend in the road.

I saw Dave Barclay next as I closed on the turnaround - he was walking, but in Jolly mood (as always).  I can't remember what we said to each other, but I can remember that I laughed...and it felt so good!  After much running, some walking, then some MORE walking, I arrived at the TRI-DRS run aid station with John Faith, Peter Zein, Michael's wife Pat, Scott Rosen's lovely, and many more who's names have left the building.  It was great to see familiar faces so soon, and Peter Zein didn't hesitate to ask me: "Bob - what HAPPENED?"

I told him it was just a bad day (we wouldn't figure out the sting reaction until taking to a doctor at home 3 days later) and I was working my way through it.  His instructions were to tie Eric to a tree when he came by, and await my return.  More pretzels, more Gatorade, and a few friendly smiles later I was moving again.  "On the way home now..." Sure - 8 miles to the start of lap 2, but headed back towards Lake Placid felt good, regardless.

Running back towards the Ski Jumps was like happy hour for me.  Sure I was struggling, but so was everyone around me by now.  Lots of encouragement from people on the road; A Gold Medal from the 1964 Olympics to touch for luck; Mark on lap one, and looking good: "You'll catch me - I know it!" I told him.  Tom Downs, Michael Parente...all the Virgins closing in on me - I was so proud of all of them!  At mile 9, Eric and I met at the same place, this time having switched sides of the road.  He still looked great, and I was now nearly 7 miles behind.  It was awesome to see...and depressing all at once.  All through training he had been warning me how undertrained and under-confident he was, while I was quietly confident I was going to have a strong day.  How quickly now the Ironman had turned the looking glass the other way!

I quietly made the climb back to town, and after 2:40, I passed Lynda and Mom for the first time as I hit the out and back on Mirror Lake Drive.  I waved to them and smiled, and just belted out "Hey!  Sorry I'm late - I'm feeling much better!"  The funny thing was - I wasn't lying to them or

myself.  I was starting to actually feel a spring in my legs for the first time all day.  I had climbed IGA hill into town, and was now running the out and back - not shuffling but really RUNNING the out and back.  After 11 hours, my 'bad patch' was finally starting to lift from my body like the fog

on Mirror Lake at the dawn of this day.  When Pete Priolo saw me on the way out, he looked at my face and knew it: "You recovered?  You recovered!  Yes! You can always recover at an Ironman!  Go get it, Bob!"

I stopped once more at mile 13 to chat, and to kiss everyone hello one more time (except Mr. Hennigan, although I asked him anyway as I worked my way down the fence).  "The next time you see me, I'll have 2 miles to go.  Just wait here - I'll be about 2 hours plus back to here. See you in one lap!"  I bounded down the hill, and was thankful to have not been passed by anyone headed in to finish.  I had worried about that very corner all year – where those 13 miles ahead of me would be going to get their medals while I was going away for another loop...and I got away without being tested.

The sun may have been setting in the sky - but it was just starting to rise within me.

Down to the jumps, I passed Eric one last time.  He was an absolute android, still putting time and distance on me.  "You're going to be in the 11's!" I yelled, completely awestruck.  As I turned the corner again, I knew it would be the last time down the backstretch, and I began to savor the moments.

The day had been my hardest Ironman yet, and I was starting to believe that I would make it.  Down towards the turn I found myself running over hills I had walked on the first loop.  I wasn't feeling that desperate feeling from within - I was tired, but I wasn't on the ropes anymore.  I was running – I was going to get back to my Mom, and I was going to finish this damn thing - end of script.

I meandered my way towards the turnaround, and said my final hellos and simultaneous good-byes to the TRI-DRS crew for their work.  The chicken soup was being served now as darkness was falling, and I grabbed a cup...as well as some Coke - I was hitting the 'emergency plan' food now.  John Faith, having remembered my alchemy on the run at IMC '98 watched me and said  "You're not gonna' mix those again, are you?"  "No..." I replied. "I'm not that gone yet!"  I trotted off, and began the final stretch towards the jumps again...disgusted at the thought of another Pepsi and Chicken Cocktail.

Along the way was another TRI-DRS roll call: Michael Parente looking STILL untired; Tom Downs closing on me with every step...and then Mark Markley and I passed once more, and I was surprised that he hadn't caught me yet.  His running is superior to mine for sure, and all he had to do was close a 20 minute gap - easy at the rate I had struggled for much of the first loop.  Little did I know that he was fighting the course, the run, and his own stomach...but still moving nonetheless.

John Keenan ran by me like I was nailed to a post, and slapped me on the rear like a football player after a good tackle: "C'mon Bob!  Keep going!" Next was Rev. Denney...and despite his little wave, I knew he was doing alright and moving along - he'd make it sooner or later!  Knowing that everyone I was worried about was moving along and likely to finish...I really started to enjoy the last hour of the day.  As I passed the final aid station on Riverside Road, a volunteer yanked the motor on a light tower to fire them up.  I had met one goal on this day - I'd beaten the Glowstick Brigade by a single step.  As I walked and sipped another cup of soup, a friend of mine from Pennsylvania, Robin Jeffers walked with me.  "Greg qualified!  He was 10th!" she told me, and at that time of day it was almost enough to make me cry.  I've known Greg since 1996, and he'd been knocking on the door to Kona so many times while all of his friends had gone...to know he finally made it was a huge relief.  He was going to be one of 'them'!

It also occurred to me that he'd had a shower, dinner, and was now having a nap.  THAT was humbling.

Mile 22 - past the base of the jumps in the twilight, as they sparkled under their lights.  I had stood at the top and pondered the leap...and now I was at the bottom, thinking about the landing.  I walked the hill past them, and started running towards the distant lights of Lake Placid.

Up the hills, past the IGA one last time, applauding the volunteers that had stayed all day for us...and the crowd that had done the same.  I had less than 3 miles to go, and was looking at IGA Hill for the last time.  I had run it on lap 1...and I was determined to run it on lap 2:  This son of a b#$%! would not beat me at all today.  One step at a time, probably slower than slow but running all the way, I ground my way towards the lights.  Past High Peaks; Past the Team Psycho House with Karen Smyers clapping on the lawn; towards the Mobil station, towards the Hot  corner...towards the last turn.

I could hear the Oval.

I could see the lights.

I had one more "Hi Mom!" before coming home.

I was going to make it.

"Hi Mom!  Wait right here - I'll be back in 20 minutes!"  I could tell by their faces, I had been running late, again.  Now that they knew I was coming - all was forgiven as Lynda and her parents headed for the Oval...and a little Italian Mom took her position by the gate, as planned.  From the bedlam and euphoria of the Hot Corner back on Mirror Lake Drive, I looked towards the glassy water to my ;left, and as it always does, the enormity of the day hit me.  From the worry before the start, to the last-minute fog clearing; The bee sting; The long ride; The blackness and doubt in the tent; "Just run a mile..."; Eric with a PR from nowhere; Greg going to Kona; Mark, Michael, Tom, Rick, Renee, Lisa, Annie, Stephen, John, Press, Lynn, everyone I knew was going to make it home...we were all heading towards the lights for one last lap.

Up the hill in silence, hugging the little lady with the clipboard as she checked my number off for the 2nd and final time.  25.2 miles down - 1 to go.  Tom Downs - from nowhere - blows by me.  "TOMMY!  NO MAKING ME LOOK BAD IN FRONT OF MY MOM!" I yelled as he motored off into the night, headed for daylight.  I was laughing out loud - "Is there anyone else who'd like to pass me now?"  I asked the night.  Just to be sure - I looked back - emptiness.

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