The
Columbia Triathlon
May 16, 2000 -- Columbia, Maryland.
1500
Meter Swim, 41K Bike, 10K Run
A cold, rainy, miserable day for the
Mid-Atlantic's greatest race.
"So you finish the run crossing that dam, there. It comes at mile
6...it's the flattest thing on the course... and despite it's appearance, it's
about 12 miles long when you're on it. From there, it's a short, nasty burst
over this grade...then 2/10ths downhill to the finish. The crowd is loud...the
race announcer will let everyone know who you are...it's one of the neatest
finishing stretches you'll have this season."
I was finishing a quick overview Rolf Arands and Jim Hutzelmann on the nuances
of the Columbia Triathlon course... a course I had started my triathlon career
on 4 short years ago, and could now navigate pretty much with my eyes shut. As
we walked the finish straight, I jumped to the grass outside of the barricades.
With a funny look from Rolf and Jim, I told them that "I can't walk in
there...bad karma to tempt the line before you deserve to cross it." Rolf
shrugged, jumped the fence, and we walked around the arch together.
Perhaps my superstition is silly, but in 1998 when I was ready to crack 2:30:00
for the Olympic Distance for the first time I walked through the chute the night
before and asked out loud to the sleeping wooden finishers arch "So, will
you break my heart tomorrow, or
send me home happy?"
The next day I finished in 2:30:06...the clock seemingly smirking and turning
2:30 when I could see it with 30 yards to go. In 1999 I kept my mouth shut and
finished in 2:22:08 - lesson learned: The line gives you what you deserve - not
what you think you deserve.
The skies were grey, the weather was gloomy. After baking and frying in various
states of meltdown and dehydration during my previous jaunts at Columbia, a
cold, wet race would be a new experience...and one I wasn't necessarily looking
forward to. I hate rain. I hate cold. Despite the thermonuclear meltdown I'd
slogged through in Pittsburgh 2 weeks ago, I'd rather have the course be an EZ-Bake
Oven again than freeze out there...but you have to play the hand your dealt,
that's just part of the game.
Of
course...this is far easier to say than to do, since I was as cranky and as
rational as a 2 year old when packing the car as St. Lynda asked me what was
wrong: "It's #(*$&ing raining! It's cold! Rain sucks! Mother Nature
sucks! I just want a nice #*(*%ing day! When will we just have a NORMAL day,
huh? I fry in Pittsburgh, and now I'll freeze here...makes me wonder why in the
world I do these things..."
Hoo boy. "Hello, 1-800 Flowers? Yes...I'm a guy...and I need your 'Boy Did
I Screw Up, I'm Sorry' arrangement? Thanks...I'll hold..."
Although it wouldn't occur to me until later...the exact same scene happened
last year at this very same time: I was getting ready to leave for Columbia and
the weather for race-day looked positively EVIL. I was sure my dream of
qualifying for Nationals would be toast...and I was just as cranky and
inconsolable then. Without the pressure to qualify this time, why was I letting
this get to me? I had lots of time on the drive to figure out what I wanted out
of this race experience.
I was 12 pounds overweight. My legs were heavy from running 2 marathons in 3
weeks previously. There was no way I was going to be as fast as last year, and I
quietly thanked God that I had been given the chance to go to St. Jo's last
year...and decided that this would be a Kamikaze Mission: I'd just go like hell
until I blew up, and then shuffle in, get some food, and go home happy. A simple
plan for a simple man - I liked it.
At the expo I met up with Mark Markley, Stacy Hills, and new Daddy of Max, Eric
Austin. Jim Hutz and Rolf happened to be outside, so after check in we all
decided to grab some food at the local cookie-cutter watering hole...a Bennigans
across the street. Since I no longer cared about going fast, I decided that I'd
have a beer (Foster's - just for you Simon!) and Chicken Quesadillas. Hey - if
you're gonna' be slow, it might as well be fun and tasty, right? Afterwards Mark
and I checked in our bikes at the lake, and I
covered Apollo from what would probably be a wet and cold night. "Sleep
well, Apollo... tomorrow we fly."
A quick stop over at Casa Dailey to take in some of Morgan's boundless
hospitality and meet some Deads...then off to bed by 10. I slept well to the
sound of the rain on my window...trying not to think of all the things my head
wanted to think about: The Lake...the hills...the rain...other cyclists...the
run...the hills...the cold...the hills...the hills...
Once I got to the park, I just sat there in my car. I listened to the rain fall,
and more than once was faced the thought of "Why am I here?" that I
just ignored. I knew I had to be here...that not starting was simply not an
alternative. As I took inventory of my gear before stepping into the mist, I
realized that my bottles for the bike as well as my spare tube and pump were
right where I had left them - next to the door in my hotel so I wouldn't forget
them. Whoops. Great. "If they have an award for best on-course sulk, that
sucker is mine." I thought...and smirked. Everything that could go wrong
was...but I was here, so I might as well just go with it. With the enthusiasm of
Eeyore on a cloudy day...I headed for the bike racks to get ready, minus a few
'weight saving' items. *sigh*
4 years ago I fretted and worried about every detail of my Transition area...and
now it was as automatic as ever: I set out my towel, my shoes, the hat, the
number. Done. I said a quick hello to Mark, Stacy and Eric, and then got into my
wetsuit 20 minutes early - it was the only way I could keep from shivering. They
all headed off to their start 15 minutes before my wave...and soon I followed
then down to the concrete ramp that I knew so well. Through the narrow, carpeted
walkway down the boat ramp
...starting my triathlon year with the same tentative waddle as the cold water
rose within the suit to meet me...and at waist high with a bellowed 'WhoooHOOO!',
leaping in to get immersed in the potential of the new day...the new
year...another new race with nothing but 'what ifs' between myself and the
finish.
The 3 minutes to tread water and get ready always seems to be so long, and so
short..."Dear Lord, let us all be safe on the roads today...and just let me
be the best Bob that I can be on this day..."
** HOOOOOOORN! **
"...Amen."
With
157 in my wave, I played the start safe. The close run to Buoy #1 hugs the
shore, and I remembered the Maytag Mode of that leg from last year as I wrestled
for my space amidst the madness. Taking the purposefully longer line I steered
far to the right, away from the lay line and the rest of the field. Sure I was
going farther, but I was doing it in peace with a clear view...and I soon found
myself relaxed and comfortably warm. Turning the first buoy by the dam, I could
see the course map in my head...and I settled into my rhythm. Long pulls, long
glides, cruise control. Second buoy...the field is stringing out now...and I
slowly made my way back to the preferred line and then let it fly - nothing to
lose now.
Grooving to Sting's 'Desert Rose' in my head as I cut through the water, the
swim was as calm as any I've had at Columbia. As I turned around the small
island that marks the turn for home with 200 yds. to go, I had to wake myself up
from my lovely trance: "Shit! We're done already?" As weird as it
sounds, I really didn't want the swim to end. The water was so warm...and each
stroke I could tell that the first moments out of the water would be just awful.
For a moment I thought "Maybe I can just keep lapping the lake...I need to
train for Chesapeake anyway..." but as the Swim Finish loomed above me, I
just started my mantra: "It'll only be cold until you get going...it'll
only be cold until you get going...just suck it up, wuss."
BEEP! 23:36. Not as good as last year (23:03), but good enough. As I stood up,
the chilly air bit at me from all sides. I ran through the finishing chutes and
up the first hill of the day, the 100 yard run up to the bike racks. As usual,
my HRM alarm went off halfway up the run as my body fought to move all the blood
currently upstairs in my torso to where it was needed. Wobbling to my bike, the
wetsuit popped off...and I proceeded to start to dry my arms and face off.
Precisely 4 seconds into this automatic yet absurd drill, my left brain came out
of oxygen debt and asked "Umm, it's raining? Is there a reason you need to
dry yourself?" Oh yeah - right. I dropped the towel, slipped my shoes on,
and clambered up to the bike-out with a T1 time as long as both transitions from
last year combined - I was in a hurry then, right? No rush here...be ready, be
set, lets go.
As I clipped in and started rolling out of the park, my arms began to shiver
immediately. The air seemed to creep into my skinsuit with every breath I
took...and I wanted to scream with the chill. I hate nothing like being cold and
wet...and here it was: The worst moment I could imagine. Suddenly I thought to
myself "It's cold. So &#$^ing what? Ride it out, fool!" I just
kept shifting up, sprinting with everything I could offer. The only thing I had
missing was the silk scarf around my neck as I screamed out of the park onto
Route 108 having picked off 6 riders in the first 200 yards...racing an
adversary that no one could see...but that everyone would feel as they left the
park.
The alarm on my HRM was a steady siren for the first 3 miles. I knew part of
this was a body still recovering from the swim to bike transition...and another
part trying to take a cold body and make it survive something it simply wasn't
designed to do...but to me it meant I was where I should have been. I was going
to ride this thing until I blew up, and that meant being on the rivet all the
way. I was picking off bikes one every few seconds, and really starting to enjoy
the chase. By 5 miles...I wasn't thinking about the cold anymore, but catching
anything in front of me...and that's when the grin started.
Josh Friedman rolled by me, and yelled out 'Hey Bob!' I usually don't notice
people on the ride, I just get lost in getting up the road...but this was
different. He was riding well, so I decided to try and hang with him. I rolled
by on the next faux plane...and less than a mile later he repeated the favor.
Back and forth...pass and repass...we carried this on for the next 6 miles...and
I was loving it. We were catching people every second, and moving in our own
little world. He was flying, and I let him know: "Dude, you're riding
great!" He flattered me right back and said "Well, you rode really
well last year...so I figured if I followed your wheel, I'd be alright." My
grin got bigger...and he took it up another notch.
Eventually, I lost sight of my dueling partner...but I'd already realized that I
was riding much better than I'd expected. Despite the rain, the wet roads and
the cold, I was in the groove and on the gear. Snap shifting between the 13 and
14 on the false flats... touching the sweet speed of the 12 on the downhills...I
couldn't help but smile - this was certainly a surprise. I kept up the best
tempo that I could...figuring I'd better enjoy
it while my legs could hold it.
As I rolled up on a collection of 3 riders, they all stayed to the right and
legal as I rolled by; I didn't even have to open my mouth. Suddenly one of them
yelled out 'Go Bob!' in a voice I recognized as Mark. I yelled back "Hey
Dude!" as I carried on...suddenly feeling a bit selfish. I tend to filter
out most things and really focus when I'm on the bike, and depersonalize
everyone as just targets along the road. This means often wordlessly passing by
friends that more times than not will cheer for me as I roll by. I always feel a
twinge of regret at such moments when I realize what's happened...but this time
I remembered that Mark was running really well this year, and this was hardly
the time to have a Hallmark 'Between Friends' moment since he'd be gunning for
me as soon as our feet hit the ground in T2.
I shifted up a gear and didn't look back. He'd be with me soon enough.
Rolling into T2, I looked at my watch and couldn't believe my eyes. With 30
seconds or so to go, I was at 1:01:50 - a full 5 minute improvement over last
year. What? Impossible. The course had to be short. No way. As it turned out,
the course was short (23.4 miles as opposed to last years 25.4 miles due to some
changes), but even so...I had ridden far past my expectations and hadn't blown
up...and I was now as confused as Wile E. Coyote watching the Road Runner stand
in thin air.
"Now what? I was supposed to have died on the bike course! This is so
crazy..."
But it was true - I was having a great day when I was least prepared for it. As
I racked Apollo, I noticed that my racks were mostly empty...for the second year
in a row. Suddenly I heard a voice call out "Mr. Mina!" It was Josh,
having finished the bike leg precisely 6 seconds before me. I told him again
"Great Ride, Buddy!" as he ran out. I grabbed my number and hat...and
followed him down the exit of T2, completely unsure of what the hell I should do
now.
I hadn't prepared for this, and I didn't have a lot of time to think about it.
Brad Spierman yelled out 'Go Bob!' as I noodled by...but I didn't know it was
him until after the race was over. I was busy trying to come to grips with the
impossible...and I wanted to call a time-out. As I ran past the first aid
station, My mind tossed up the image of Art Hutchinson catching me on the run at
IMC '99.
On that day I had surprised myself with a good ride, but balked on the run since
"I'm not a good runner." When I asked Art what he was doing 'back
here' with me, he said "Bob, I'm not back anywhere - you're up here. If you
can talk, you're not running hard enough. Move it!" he politely scolded me.
I knew he was right, but did nothing that day...and was forced to ask myself
"What if...?" when I looked back. This time - I could do something.
Today, I would make amends. I stopped being scared, tightened the silk
scarf around my neck once more, and launched myself headlong towards the first
hill on the run. I had no excuse now - I would go for broke on the run, or blow
up trying.
Around the hairpin in the rain, up the grinding climb that reduced everyone's
legs to quivering heaps. At the top I could have sworn I saw Edward Grimley
eating a bowl of Oatmeal while sitting on a bench next to the path. He looked at
me and said "Bob, I'd offer you some oatmeal, but since your legs appear to
be full of some right now I guess you don't need it, eh?" I took that as a
sign that I was running at the limit and pressed on.
Mile 1 - 7:41 - 10 seconds slower than 99. Impossible.
I ground along the lake...up the backside, within earshot of the finish a mere
100 yards across the lake, but 5 miles away. I had warned Rolf and Jim that
mentally this was rough, and I closed my ears to the sound as I tried to keep my
turnover light and quick.
Mile 2: 7:43 - Another sub-8. This is nuts.
Heading out of the park, I knew that mile 3 was the beast. Last year this mile
pushed me within a stride of cracking and giving up the race and my bid for
Nationals, so I knew what to expect. I shuffled up, up, around, and out of the
park...across Annapolis Lane, and into the neighborhood portion of the run. As I
turned left, my eyes saw a figure that looked just like Christian Slater heading
for home.... "STACY!" I yelled, as he raised a hand to wave back -
clearly he was on his game today. My buddy Greg motored through, game face
on...followed by Cary right on his heels.
Mile 3 - 9:36. Ouch. Last year it was a 9:13, so at least I'm consistently bad.
Around the quiet houses once more. Although the day feels long to me, it's still
only about 10:00am, and most of these folks are having coffee, reading the
paper, wondering why there's a parade of very fast people running by in their
underwear on a rainy Sunday morning. With the big hill behind me and the sun
still hidden by the clouds, I started to feel my legs come back alive...and I
ran my fastest mile of the day:
Mile 4: 6:51. 6:51. Holy Sh*t. 2.2 to go - hanging on now.
Down, around. Down, around. Having done this race so many times was paying
dividends now. I knew that it was down and around one block to close the loop,
and head back towards the park for the finish. I let my legs do what they
could...still not believing what was happening.
Annapolis Lane again - close the loop.
Mile 5 - 7:54. 1.2 to go - 2 lousy clicks, and one lousy hill to go.
Over the last climb. Down the steep, steep backside...by the water again...through
the trees...and onto the dam and the finishing stretch I had toured less than 24
hours ago. A quick look behind - nobody near enough to be worried about - and
only people from other AG's ahead...just get across this bloody dam and get this
thing over with. Where's Mark? Man...I hope he didn't have another bad
day...there's no way I should have outrun him here...
Mile 6 - 7:41. I can't contain my smile anymore - how has this happened? I don't
know, and I don't care right now...as my legs pick up the tempo like a horse
that knows it's taking it's last gallops to the stable for the day...and I can't
contain how good it feels to have pulled something like this out of nowhere. My
mind searches for a phrase - a single word to sum up my joy with the crowd at
the finish...and with my last breath I rear back and bellow:
"WAAAAAAAAAAAZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZUUUUUUUUUUUUUUPPPPPPPPPPPPP!!!!!!"
Instantly, the crown reacts. Another breath - another yell:
"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAZZZZZZZZZUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUPPPPPPPPPPPP!!!"
An even bigger cheer. My whole body is on pins and needles now as I cover the
steps that I superstiously avoided yesterday...not really touching the ground at
all. Bob Vigorito the race director is standing at the finish line as he always
does, and he reaches out to high five me as I cover the last 2/10ths in 1:51 to
record a 49:19 run split...only 20 seconds slower than last year to finish with
a time of 2:21:43 - 25 seconds faster than my Nationals time last year.
I am listed 26th out of 79 finishers for the 25-29 AG...and because this is the
Mid-Atlantic Olympic Distance Championship the qualifying standard for St. Jo's
is the top 33% instead of the usual 25%: The cherry on the Sundae that is my
Columbia Sunday will come when I realize that I have pipped into the last eligible
spot for USAT Nationals once more, proving to my harshest critic (me) that 1999
was no fluke.
Without having suffered the implosion I had counted on...Kamikaze scarf still
around my neck...I have just learned that once I step out of my own way, there
will be very little I can do to stop myself. You'd think after 5 tries here I'd
know that...but as the Indigo Girls have sang to me on more than one occasion
"The hardest to learn is the least complicated."
Time and placement be damned...that's the lesson I really need more of.
Markley would come through the finish a mere 90 seconds later - another mile on
that course...and he'd have had me for sure. I was thankful to see he was OK and
in much better shape than last year. We avoided any time in the medical tent
this time...and we headed for the cars to say our goodbyes...
...To the lake, the hills, the cold...and to the line that saved it's
greatest surprise for me on a day when I expected nothing and found
everything all at once, by simply not looking.