Mike Kelly pulled the truck into the grassy parking lot, and the windshield wipers beat back and forth with the same relentless rhythm they'd been drumming out for 2 days. The weather forecast said today would be partly cloudy with a high near 65. Well, it was partly right. 51 degrees. Steady rain. I guess we were in the part that wasn't partly cloudy. It was 6:20am, and for once I was in no hurry to get out of the car until it was absolutely, positively necessary.

For the second year in a row, it looked like Mother Nature was determined to simply break the hearts and spirits of everyone at the Columbia Triathlon before the race even started. Last year I scraped the frost off my bike before the start - but there would be sun later on that day to at least present the illusion of hope.

Today was dark, grey, cold, and wet. Hope faded like the sun none of us would see. Mike left the engine (and the heat) running, the music going, and we sat and watched the parade of frozen bodies head towards transition. None of them had that 'ready for battle' look we all love on race mornings: They all had empty eyes, staring into the nothingness, no doubt asking the same question. "Why?"

My wave would go off at 7:47am. I planned on getting to my bike at 7:15, and being to the swim start (a short walk away) by 7:30. Plenty of time, right? At 7:00am, I opened my door and faced the inevitable. The raw air slapped my face, and the sloppy marsh of the field made each step an adventure. Mike stumbled out, and I really felt bad for him...as well as all of the spectators who would be forced to wait about on a day more suited for mid-March than mid-May. There was no line in body-marking, so thankfully I didn't have to wait with my sweats off for more than 10 seconds as the black lines to form "919" went onto my arms and legs for the first time in 2003. Mike walked down to the fence and said he'd wait for me - I'd pump the tires and hand it back to him.

I slid down the muck into the transition, and patted a soaked Phoenicia. "I'm so sorry..." Speaking of cruel, I noticed that someone had helped themselves to one of my plastic bags overnight. My bars were protected, but the top tube and saddle were soaked from the overnight rain. Not that it would make a difference when my frozen, soaked skinsuit hit the leather in about an hour, but it still tweaked me. I wished the thief a year of flats and too little fiber in their diet, and got on with getting as ready as I could.

I'd brought arm warmers, a Tri-top to put over the skinsuit, and 2 pairs of socks. In a last-second addition, Mike asked me "Do you want my rain jacket?" I took it. Couldn't hurt. I've never raced in a jacket, but today wasn't going to be a test of bravado or a fashion show - I wanted all I could wear.

"GET OUT OF TRANSITION NOW, OR YOU WILL BE DISQUALIFIED! TRANSITION WILL BE CLOSED IN ONE MINUTE!"

Hmm? I've been doing this race 7 years - this was new to me. Nowhere in the race guide or pre-race meeting was this mentioned. There was a rep from Sommer Sports (first year timers here), and apparently they'd mixed up the instruction that the PARK ENTRANCE would be closing at 7:00am (for the first wave start) with the transition area. Immediately 400 or so wet, cranky, and cold triathletes became 400 wet, cranky, cold, confused, and miffed triathletes. Since I didn't expect to have quick transitions, I changed the plan: I dumped my entire backpack into my Hefty bag, tied it off, wriggled into my wetsuit, and headed out. I'd worry about it later.

I handed the pump to Mike, and my own Super Sherpa ran up the hill to the truck. The Kelly's had been great hosts for me this weekend, and I really felt bad that Mike would be stuck waiting for me - just like I felt bad my Mom would freeze last year. Must be the Italian, Roman Catholic guilt I was raised with - I naturally feel bad for everything at times like that. Mike said he'd be running around the park while I was gone, but still - yuck.

After a quick walk to the staging area, it was the Silver Caps time to hit the lake. Mike managed to run a 3-minute half-mile to get back and wish me luck before we all had to hit the drink. The water was 60 degrees - a sickening 10 degrees warmer then the air. We crept forward on the landing, and then the officials let us know: "OKAY MEN! IN YOU GO!"

Nobody moved.

10 seconds.

20 seconds.

"NOW! GO GO GO GO GO GO!"

The first guy put his foot in, and swore. Someone jumped in, surfaced, and swore. Jump. Splash. Surface. Swear. I said a quck hello to Morgan Dailey, and asked for a lift. He declined. Good man. It came to be my turn, and I just put my hand on the dock and pivoted in, trying in my last moments to hover over the water like a buttered cat. It didn't work.

SPLASH.

SURFACE.

It was so cold, I felt my nay-nay's come tearing upwards through my body, and crash into my brain with an audible "THUNK."

@#*&@#*&!

As I treaded water and headed to the middle of the field, I turned to the guy next to me and said, "You know, we all start as women in the womb. I think I just went back." He chucked and said, "So now what?" I shrugged, "Guess I've got to learn to pee sitting down from now on or something."

The officials, trying to keep a schedule, warned us again: "ONE MINUTE!"

I tried to make a deal with my wave-mates. "We don't have to go, you know! We can just get out and run for the bikes! They can't get us all! We can just swim to the finish! It's right there! What - 100 yards! C'mon, lads! They can't make us do anything!"

"30 SECONDS!"

No deal. Time to take the pain.

"10 SECONDS!"

It occurred to me that I hadn't put my face in the water yet. My goggles were dry as a stone, and my fingers were already going numb. Whoops. I set them the best that I could, but a dry goggle? No chance.

"GO!"

I took my first 5 strokes, and my head, as if in protest and fighting to the last like the stern railing on the Titanic, refused to go under. I kept telling myself, "Lower - lower your head!" But I couldn't. It wouldn't go down. Eventually, my neck began to really ping so I caved and splashed down...taking a breath of shock as soon as my skull was enveloped in the chill.

To make it more interesting, my goggles immediately flooded. My brain reported that my eyeballs must have frozen open. I kicked, lifted my head, drained the lenses, and got back to it. 10 strokes later, they'd filled up again. It was my own fault - too busy being the funny man at the start, I'd skipped a key pre-start item. Too late to be mad now - I settled into a rhythm of 10 stokes swim, drain, resume. The goggles had never leaked in training, so I knew it was just this day that was bringing on the flood.

As I got onto the backstretch, I was swimming about where I normally would - I just couldn't get my arms to feel 'right.' My shoulders were tight, and breathing was just harder. I was wearing a fullsuit for the first time in my career, and it made me feel better to NOT be dealing with this day in a long-john. I started passing people from the early waves; many of them were just breast-stroking well outside the course, and a few just gave up and swam back to the start across the lake. I began to wonder the same: "What am I here for? Why do I need to take this abuse? What have I got to prove to myself?"

The day was 20 minutes old, and already a DNF was looking pretty tempting. Knowing that I was as warm as I was going to be for the next 2 hours, those letters looked like a fireplace in my mind, holding a cup of hot cocoa. With marshmellows. "I don't need to be tough. I don't need to prove anything here. What's the point?"

I turned the final corner, and hit the beach in 24:02, only 1:10 off my time last year. Considering I lost that much draining my goggles, I was pleasantly surprised. I was also immediately cold - the air was just plain MEAN on the run out, so I walked. I spotted Mike, and just shook my head - this was going to suck.

At my bike I wriggled out of my wetsuit, and opened my bag. "Hmm, what to wear, what to wear?" Easy call - I put on everything, except socks. They'd be soaked in 2 seconds. Why bother?

As I waddled through the quagmire to the exit, I ducked to the left side of the run-out. The grass was still intact and runnable as opposed to the main lane, which had been chewed up into a Woodstock-like mess that had people sliping and swearing as they tried to get up it in bare feet. An official waved to me, "Come here - come here!" and pointed to the middle. I was perfectly fine where I was, and trying not to sound like a smart-ass I replied, "Sir? I can stand up here - if I go there, I'm headed back to the lake - backwards." He looked at me, and I rumbled past.

I got on Phoenicia, and pedaled out onto Route 108 to meet my pain. It would be as bad as it was going to be right now: No body heat, soaked, and with the fast start on 108 looming, I knew I wasn't going to be ready - I just knew what was coming.

Mother Nature started with pins, and then unloaded the daggers. The chill raced through my helmet, down my back, and into my legs. My exposed knees cried and creaked, and the spray off my wheels forced me to duck my head to try and escape it...but there was nowhere to go. Each breath was draining - I could feel the cold air ripping into my lungs, crushing whatever warmth dared remain, and replacing it with dark, damp, lifeless wheezing.

"I have nothing to prove. Why am I here?" I kept asking myself, and this time I didn't have an answer. "Some would say this builds character. I don't NEED anymore character." Maybe it's a sign of age, laziness, or just that mental bleakness that comes into play when the conditions are evil, but I was seriously wondering what the point of suffering through a day like this would be. For the first time that I could remember quitting seemed like the sane choice, and there was none of the usual resistance from within. Some might call it wisdom, or maybe even maturity?

I call it clammy chamois. That can really mess with a guys head at a time like this.

However, I was already almost halfway out. The best way to quit was to ride back to T1, so I figured I might as well keep going and get to T2. If I could get to T2...well, you get the idea. The DNF Tennis game went on like this all the way, getting nowhere.

I tried to ride hard, but my legs were having none of it. Just like 2002 my core was taking all the blood that my legs were demanding, in order to do that whole stay alive thing. It was like sprinting through sludge - I felt like I wasn't moving at all...yet I was passing. I was constantly on the left, moving by people. Everyone looked awful - mouths agape, eyes fixed, squinting in pain. Pro's from the first wave were coming back as I headed out, and I counted 5 that were sitting up out of their aero-bars, riding the little ring, surrendering to the elements.

"God Bless all the first-timers..." I thought. I couldn't imagine them dealing with this.

I rode the best that I could the rest of the way with Mike's rain jacket flapping in the breeze. The jacket soaked through early, but at least it gave my body an extra layer. I savored the hills - the wind would ease it's grasp for those moments, and I could breathe - just for a few seconds. I rode the big ring on the downhills, and tried to end the suffering as fast as I could. I took the final climb in the Big Ring, desperate to get back to the park and get off the bike. At least the run would be warmer. Since I was almost to T2, I couldn't quit now - a 6 mile run? After Boston, it was nothing but another hour in the rain.

As I turned into the park, I spotted Mike waiting for me. Again, I just exhaled and shook my head. My split was 1:18 as I turned in - nearly 12 minutes off my best on this course, and the first time in my entire triathlon career that I'd averaged less than 20 miles per hour on any course (save IM). Despite that, my split was 140th overall out of 1200+, so everyone was slow, and dying.

As I dismounted, the scene from 2002 repeated itself: Cold cleats, frozen feet, inflexible ankles, and a downhill run on pavement that was now soaked. I took one step, and started sliding like Yogi Berra. My feet began this frantic 'Flintstone car start' in reverse, as I tried to keep my balance with appendages that were beyond control.

I managed to make it to the grass without eating my lunch, and slithered down the muck to my rack. When I got there I put Phoenicia in bars-first, and put my hands on the rack for balance. My legs were shivering and trying to cramp, and my feet weren't there. I mean, I could see them, but as far as my feeling went, there was nothing below the ankle. There was a woman next to me doing the same thing - standing there, hands on the rack, trying to figure out wotdahell to do next.

"I sure hope my next race is warmer!" She piped as she fought to get her shoes off.

I peeled off my shoes, and for whatever reason, punched the bottom of my right foot as a test. I felt my hand hit, I heard the 'thwack!', and saw it, but nothing - NOTHING came out of the nerves on my foot. I reached into the bag of clothes, and came out with some dry socks. It took me 2 minutes to get them onto my wet, lifeless feet with my equally uncoordinated fingers. All around me I could see people sitting on the ground, fighting with their shoes and socks, and piling on layer after soaked layer.

As I headed toward the run-out, I discovered that I couldn't run. My feet were so numb, I cold hear my feet literally flopping against the ground with each stride. I knew that if I tried to push it I'd probably end up tripping on the pavement, and I just didn't need it. Seeing that I'd need to run a 29-minute 10K to break my OLY Distance PR, I officially no longer cared how long it took to get through the run.

I crossed the timing mat, and stopped to chat with Mike as I fiddled with a Clif Shot that had frozen into a Cleef Bar. "Dude, that sucked." was all I could muster. "Did you have a nice run?" I asked. Mike, seeming a bit surprised that I wasn't in a hurry, told me about how many people he'd seen just quit in the swim, or right off the bike. More DNF's then he could recall here. I told him I'd be back in about an hour, and to go somewhere to get warm.

I managed to kill about 2 minutes waiting for my feet to come back, but they weren't even close - just the beginnings of pins and needles. I took about 10 tentative steps...

"BOB! BOB! BOB!" Someone was calling me! Yes! I can stop again!

It was Steve Smith and Aaron Schwartzbard. I stopped, stepped off the path, and high-fived them. Steve yelled, "What are you doing! GO! GO!" I didn't have time to explain that I was physically unable to go and much preferred the company of others at this point in my day, so with a wink I just said, "Go where? I'm just training today."

We chatted, I congratulated Aaron on his 100-miler only a week ago, and then, eventually, I waddled down the hill towards the first mile marker. After a few hundred yards the blood began to flow to my feet again, replacing the empty feeling in my shoes with the slowly increasing burn of pins and needles. I was slowly setting into something that resembled running, but strangely I wasn't going backwards through the field like I usually do - everyone around me was running/shuffling the same pace. Even though I felt slower than slow, it was all relative - I was right with everyone else.

My first mile was a 14:53. Yee Gods. I think I walked 6 minutes of that, but I could finally run now. The rain was still coming down, I could see my breath, but this was better than the bike. As I rounded a corner near the tennis courts on the backside, there was a couple walking. The woman had a 32oz Dunkin' Donuts coffee cup - I could see the steam coming out of the sipper. I said out loud, "Dude! She's got coffee!" She turned around, and held it out to me! I asked her, "Is it fru-fru? Light and sweet?" She smiled and said, "No - Black." Playing up the bit, I politely waved her offering away. "Oh, not for me. Black coffee makes me edgy." I was actually more afraid that with my frozen fingers, I'd spill it all over myself and end up being a case-study at the local hospital: "So lets see, people. Our patient is suffering from low-grade hypothermia, and second-degree burns. How'd he do that?"

As I exited the park, I heard Dave Wiesenhahn finish on the other side of the lake. "Lucky bastard!" I thought...but then I remembered that his wave started 30 minutes before mine. That's not so lucky. It was a draw.

Entering the neighboorhood section of the run, I was almost feeling good...then my stomach started to knock. Maybe it was too much coffee before the start. Maybe it was too much lake water. Despite the fact that I'd made not one but TWO pit stops before the start, my GI tract wanted to throw it's wrench to the most awful performance I'd ever had at Columbia. At least my day would be complete.

I knew darn well that this was a high-rent area, however. Perfect houses with perfect lawns, and no woods to speak of. No port-a-loos, either. Who needs to poop in a 10K for heaven's sake? I knew I had one choice - I had to hang on and make it back to the park and the finish.

3 gut-wrenching, double-over moments later, I abandoned that concept. I started looking for anyone in their front-yard that wouldn't mind a perfect stranger dressed in lycra coming up to them and saying...

..."Hi! Is this your house? Can I ask you a HUGE favor?" At mile 4, my savior's name was Barbara. Before I could even finish the question she said, "Bathroom? This way!" and started running towards her front door. I thanked her and said, "I'll take my shoes off!" She waved with one of those, "Forget it!' waves, and led me in. Down the hall, past the kitchen, nirvana awaited.

It occurred to me in the middle of things that I'd probably just broken the Outside Assitance rule...but the alternative would have probably broken a few local laws, had the race banned from coming back, and would need a Hazmat crew to deal with. Barbara was nice, and she had a group of 5 junior-high school aged girls with her that thought this was the funniest thing they'd ever seen. In my mind, it was a break-even deal.

2 minutes later, I was a new man. I bounded down the hallway and Barbara said, "We've got cookies and bagels! Can I get you anything?" I told her, "No, thank you ma'am. I've already broken enough rules for one day - but thank you for saving my race!" As I trotted down the driveway, the Columbia Junior High School Girl's Chorus started chanting, "Bye Bob!" I laughed, and as Barbara held up a camera, I stopped and posed for a picture. I left chuckling to myself at the complete wreck that my day had become, but at least I was having fun now. As I trotted down the road the girls kept on saying my name - "Bob! Bob! Bob!"

I made a note of the address on the mailbox - I've got to send her a Thank You card. 2 miles to go, and this never-ending train-wreck would be behind me.

As I entered the park, I turned to the guy next to me and said, "You think Eagleman will be warmer?" He smiled. "It better be, or I'm staying home." Across the dam on Centennial Lake for the 7th time in my career, the raindrops were making perfect circles on the swim course. The water looked black, deep, and lifeless. I was surprised that I hadn't quit - during the swim, I was almost certain that there would be no dam crossing for me...but here I was.

I turned the corner and entered the finishing chute, waving my hat to the soaked but persistent spectators. They were something else! They yelled back to me on cue, and brought one last smile to my thawing face. I crossed the line in 2:51 - a new personal worst by over 14 minutes...counting a 59-minute, pit-stopped run split.

A medic looked into my eyes and asked me, "Are you okay?"

I replied, "Ma'am, I suck. But I'm fine."

I got through the chute, and grabbed a Mylar blanket(!). I found Mike, and talked to Steve and Aaron a bit more. Debi Bernardes introduced herself, and I was able to put another face with a name from the list. After 2-3 minutes of pleasantries, I had to go. I just couldn't stand around - I knew I needed to get warm ASAP.

Mike and I said goodbye, and headed for transition. Playing the role of the friend and sherpa one last time, Mike helped me gather my gear (thanks to a sympathetic corral official), and we were in the truck with the heat cranked less than 10 minutes after I finished. I clutched the Mylar around me, and willed the road home to pass as fast as it could.

I enjoyed the greatest shower of 2003 back at Mike and Kim's place, and put on all the clothes that I'd brought down the day before. The chill just wouldn't leave me - this was MAY for God's sake. What was going on here? When Mike and Kim had moved back here from San Diego in June of 2002, I remember how stoked they were to find a place less than 10 minutes away from the race. Through plans and family obligations however, they wouldn't have a chance to enter. Knowing how hard it is to watch and not race, I knew it was going to be tough for Mike to be the great friend that he was and help out...but at least with weather like that I was able to tell him, "Dude, be GLAD you didn't get in. You didn't miss anything."

Regardless, it was over. Looking back now, I'm still trying to find my lesson here. Maybe it's that I'm getting older, and my personal suffer-meter isn't as high as it used to be? Maybe it's that no matter how bad it gets, as long as I keep moving I'll probably get through it? Maybe.

All I know is that it's May 23rd here, and the sun has been out twice in the past 23 days. It has rained on 20 of those 21 days without sun. I don't know what I've done to offend Mother Nature, but I must apologize and get things right before Blackwater! Anyone know her e-mail address?

Hurricane Bob
* "Have any coffee?" - Asked at every run aid station. *

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