Wilkes Barre 2006

The Wilkes-Barre Triathlon is a race that it seems time forgot. You can sign up less than a year in advance. It still costs $65.00. The field is around 400. It's everything I loved about my first year of triathlon 10 years ago, and it just doesn't change.

When I went back last year for the first time since 1998, it was just like I remembered - a wonderful, simple throwback. This year it was going to be the finale to my first "Baby Based" season, so I didn't really want to call it an "A" race, as I tend to do a little better when I don't put pressure on myself to actually go fast. Thusly, I didn't call it anything. It was just going to be Wilkes-Barre, same as it ever was.

Last year I had a fantastic race - I won the Clydesdale, and with my 2:34, would have been 7th of 26 in Age Group. I managed to do that after riding 2.5 hours the day before, (I was on my 'big' weekend before Timberman). Obviously, I was onto something. Of course, I didn't know what it was, so this year I just tried to do the same thing. I got up early Saturday and rode 90 minutes easy, then followed it up with Pancakes. Pancakes are a big deal to me - I don't eat them nearly enough. Actually, as I feasted on my post-ride pancakes, I remembered that the last time I'd had post-ride pancakes was...the day before Wilkes Barre last year.

I said my goodbyes to the ladies early in the afternoon, and headed upstate. This would be my first race without them all year (how'd that happen?), and while I knew I'd miss them, there was an upside to this. I had a room reserved at the Holiday Inn in Wilkes Barre. It had a TGIFriday's attached. It had a bed that I would sleep in. That I would SLEEP IN. SLEEP! For the first time in the entire year, I was guaranteed a pre-race sleep, and that wasn't all that was looking up. After running and riding in 100F+ heat all week, the weather forecast was for mid-70's with low humidity. I'd had pancakes.

Thing were lining up the way they usually line up before the good races, and I didn't have to do anything, or waste any energy to do it. That's when you know a good day could happen. Bring it!

I was in bed at 9:30PM, and slept straight through until the wake-up call at 5:00AM. When I woke up, I felt like I'd been given an ePO, Testosterone, and Pop-Tart highball. I was ready to go.

Wilkes Barre is a two-transition race; you rack your bike at Harvey's Lake on Saturday night, set up your T2 on Sunday morning, and then take a bus to the start. Sounds complicated, but it really isn't. The race organizers have their act together - this was the 25th anniversary for the race, so everything was perfect, just like I'd always remembered. During the bus ride, I managed to find a seat near my buddy John McGurk.

John and I have a lot in common: We both were USCF racers in the early 90's, and did a lot of the same races. We both entered the triathlon arena in the mid-90's, and we've both started trying to race with babies in the past year. In John's case, he went so far as to have another one this year in early June (or, more accurately, his wife Tracey did), and he STILL cranked out a 10:36 at IM-USA. Hearing John talk makes my one-baby life seem easy.

If there's one thing that old cyclists love to do pre-race, it's tell war stories. John set the mood for the day perfectly when somehow we got onto the topic of the biggest wrecks we'd ever been in (not that we were expecting to be in wrecks, or were personally wrecks, it's just that wrecks are funny when you're not in the middle of one). John won with his recount of the 1988 Tour of Somerville stack up, simply known in cycling lore as "The Epic Stack." That year the entire Pro Men's Field at Somerville biffed. Seriously. 180 guys. The only thing that didn't crash was the pace car. John was in the pile, or to hear him tell it, on the pile.

"As I came into the straight, there was just a f*ckin' pile of bikes. I mean a PILE. Six feet high. I'm looking up at this stack, wondering, 'Wow. How'd they get up there?' Then I hit it, and got drilled by the guy behind me, which vaulted me up the pile. And I thought, 'Oh. Well, there you go.'"

At Harvey's Lake, it was actually COLD. It was 59F, which was 40 degrees colder than I'd gotten used to. What made things worse - the water temp was 86F. It didn't bother me that there'd be no wetsuits (I hadn't brought mine anyway - didn't even pack it), but once you did your warmup swim, it meant standing around in what felt like April conditions. I just picked up my T1 towel, wrapped it around me, and stood there, shivering. My teeth were clacking so loud, I sounded like a pair of possessed castanets.

After 20 minutes of shivering, it was finally time for my wave to start. I was in wave 5 of 8, near enough to the middle to make the race fun; lots of chasing to do on the bike. Wilkes Barre uses a true beach start - nobody is allowed to even have a toe on the water, so we all lined up on the sand, and when cued, made the dash into the soup. The water felt FANTASTIC when I got back in - like a nice, warm bath. Pity I had so much work to do.

The seaweed was back - just like last year. It had grown all the way to the surface, so it was tough to keep my stroke together. Each pull I was reaching into this murky, grassy mess, with tendrils of seaweed dragging across my face, down my body, and down my legs. It felt just as gross as it sounds, but it only lasted about 200 yards, thankfully. I settled into a decent rhythm, and did my best to keep to the inside line. I felt strong - powerful. Even without the wetsuit, I could tell I was on top of the water - gliding - strong. Not bad at all considering I'd made it to the pool once since Tupper Lake.

During her 1999 Ironman New Zealand race report, Jane Fratesi amazed me with her description of how she peed mid-swim, attempting to frost off a guy drafting too closely, tickling her feet. Since I read that, I've wondered how she did it. For most of the way out to the turnaround, I tried, and tried, and tried, and couldn't do it. At the turnaround boat, I had a moment of clarity: "The BOAT!" I ducked out of line, and swam under the pontoon boat, much to the confusion of the young ladies volunteering. "Left turn! You go left!" I replied, "No, trust me - I've got to go here!"

"C'mon. You gotta' go. You gotta' go! Go!" I got caught in this loop of panic and adrenaline. I had to go, but to go I had to relax, but I couldn't relax because I was hanging onto a pontoon boat half a mile from shore, listening to pair after pair of arms churn past me while I was waiting, because I had to go.

After what felt like 2 minutes, I had to give up. There was no way this was going to work. I was just pissing away time, ironically enough, by not pissing at all. I took off on the return leg feeling even stronger - probably a little annoyed, too. I made a deal with myself - "Get to shore, take the time to hit a little box, and then focus on a strong bike. The time lost is already lost - don't make it worse by skipping what you need to do in T1!"

After much re-passing of caps and snorting of seaweed, I came ashore in a mezzo piano 28:34. I should have been on form for a 24:00 or so, but even with that swim I was still ranked 61st out of 383, right where I usually finish.

I LOVE the Wilkes-Barre Bike course. It's the only course I know of that's flat from T1, then descending for another mile. It doesn't hit you with that traditional long climb away from water - you can build the tempo at your own pace. It gives your legs and body a chance to settle - a rare treat.

This year I remembered to make the left turn shortly after lapping the lake (unlike 2 of the 3 previous years where I motored, head-down, right past the State Trooper there to keep people on course), and felt good right away. Reaching the ends of the bars and getting low came easily. My back was flat. My legs felt strong. There was no wind.

I started to smirk. That turned to a grin. Then that blossomed to a wide-open smile. As the wind whistled through my helmet (and mostly empty head), I knew this was going to be a fun ride.

I motored over the first the rollers in the saddle, picking off position after position. After 5 miles of cruise control I made the sharp right, and started stepping up the 3 miles of serious climbing - up into the farmlands. I wasn't afraid to use the 23 - I sat back, controlled my breathing, and spun as smoothly as I could. Over the top of the last rise, I shifted, accelerated, and then took a hit from the JetStream.

The second half of the course is much more technical than the first. There are some steep descents, winding roads, and even two chicanes (through intersections that didn't line up) in the last 5 miles. I knew I could make up even more time at every corner.

Plunging down one descent, the road was painted across the entire lane: "SLOW - SHARP CURVE AHEAD." I could see three riders to the right, already upright and out of the bars, feathering their brakes. The left lane was wide open; I didn't even give it a second thought. I could see the corner coming up - it was a 90-degree left hander. I spotted where I'd need to complete the pass to make sure I didn't impede or across anyone, and still have a good chance to make the corner. I focused on that entry point, and let it fly.

I hit the binders, let the rims sing their song (Campy brakes sound SO nice at the limit!), then leaned over and put all the faith I had in my tires. "Spectacular pass, or spectacular biff..." crossed my mind as the edge of the road came up to meet me, but I cleared it with a foot to spare and 15mph more speed than anyone else. As I glanced back, the gap was just huge. "All gain, no pain..." I smiled.

There may not be many things in this world I can do well, but taking a corner away from a triathlete? Guaranteed. If I want it, I'm going to take it, because you can't do this like me. I got out of the saddle and motored on down the road to the next carrot...the next target...the next meal.

I was catching relays now - Wave 4. I could see more and more bikes with just drop bars, and roadies in full jerseys. I worked a little harder to make those passes stick, but I could tell I was just having one of those days. As I swept past a Sickler's Cycling guy on a left-hander, I even heard a "Duuuude." A roadie 'Dude'ed me. Sweet. Made me think of the line from "The Big Lebowski" - The Dude Abides. The Dude Abides.

The No-Hitter is something I've always wanted to accomplish: I've always wanted to finish a bike leg without getting passed once. It's part ability, part luck, and part timing. Twice I'd come close - At the Escape from Ft. Delaware in 2002, I'd only been passed by one relay rider. At Columbia in 1999, I was passed at the entrance to Centennial Park - less than 100 feet from the dismount! Again at Columbia in 2005, just one - he was named Eric. I remembered that one. And here at Wilkes-Barre, I suddenly let that seductive thought enter my mind. "We're getting close. Could today be the day?"

It could be. Each hill I held my position, or moved up. Occasionally I'd see a figure shadow me, but they always dropped off. Through the rollers. Through the rough pavement. Towards the chicanes, I just kept on the rivet. Mike Plumb once told me that the best way to race an Olympic Distance was to treat each leg like there aren't any others: Swim like it's a 1500; Ride like you're racing a 40K; Run with everything you have left.

My breathing was getting louder now - I wasn't holding back. Whenever worry started to enter my mind, "Too hard - back it off! How are you going to run?" I just thought the same thing over and over: No hitter. Today is the day.

The first chicane caught me by surprise - I glanced at the arrows on the road, and whistled through in the aerobars, losing no momentum at all. I knew there was less than 3 miles to go now - I had to stay focused. Through the second chicane, again without getting out of my tuck. I glanced back - there was just one guy hanging on. I couldn't shake him. "No, you don't..." I thought - on the next rise I shifted up, got out of the saddle, and opened the gap.

At the next crossing I zipped through, and watched the State Trooper step into the road to let some waiting cars pass. That meant I'd opened it up. "Do it. Do it! Don't look back now! Ride it like you stole it!"

The last mile seemed to take an hour. I kept waiting - listening - watching for the left turn to Penn State WB and T2. On the final rise, I jumped out of the saddle like I had to sprint for it...

After 10 years of trying, I'd finally done it. I dropped my head to the stem, and just about lost it right there. I couldn't believe it. How does a guy with no sleep finally do something he's been trying to do for 10 years on the hardest course outside of Columbia?

40K done - I hit the dismount line, and without hesitation, it hit back. When I stepped off, I couldn't move. Could. Not. Move. For just one second, my legs felt like they'd turned to stone right then and there. "Whoa. Okay, take it easy. Baby steps!" I took a few shuffly steps, and headed towards the mostly empty racks. At least I knew I didn't have anything else to give - I'd left it all out there.

Despite having no balance and with my head spinning like a hovering Sikorsky, I managed to get shoes and socks on, and skedaddle from T2 in 1:14. I'd lost my number belt when packing on Friday, then found it, and somehow lost it again on Saturday. I ran over the timing mats holding the number in front of me like a steering wheel; the USAT rules stated that the number must be visible at the start of the run - done!

The run at Wilkes-Barre is just like the bike: Hills, hills, hills, but with a fairly flat first mile to let you get settled in. I knew after the bike that I really hadn't left myself too much to work with - I would have to just live minute to minute, and do the best that I could. I'd run the course enough to know that the extra KM felt so much longer than just 0.62 miles - in my head I made it a 7 mile run.

After one mile, I could feel my legs coming around...slowly. While I wasn't going to break 56:00, I wasn't going to death-march, either. I made time on the flats, and just ran whatever pace I could manage on the steeps. I was giving back some of those places I'd taken on the bike, but that didn't bother me - people weren't flying past. They were slow passes - I was finding a good groove. My breathing was controlled, and with the air temps around 75F, it was actually cool. Heck - it WAS cool. 30 degrees colder than the runs I'd done during the week - that had to be helping.

I ran mile marker to mile marker, just backing it off when the my stomach started to let me know, "Too much - too much!" When I made the turn at Lehman High School, I knew the big hills were behind me - just some rollers to the line now with 2 miles to go. I took a quick look back - nobody in sight. I knew if I could just hold on and not get passed in the last 2 miles, I'd have pretty much assured myself a great day. My 'yougottabekiddinme' goal was top-10 in Age Group, and now it seemed to be there for the taking.

I passed the "1 mile to go" sign; I'd managed to hold my position through mile 6, but then I saw him. Just a quick glimpse; white tri-top. No hat. Male. Bald. Probably in his mid-to-late 30's. Like me. Maybe 50 yards back, and closing.

"Don't look back. Remember to breathe. If you can pick it up, do it." I worked to keep my cool as the effort really started to weigh on my shoulders. As I passed one spectator, without turning my head I asked, "How far back is he?" God Bless the guy, he replied, "50 yards..." and without missing a beat, he added, "...there is no pain."

Each step made me more nervous. He hadn't caught me - was he stalking? Was he there? Was I holding, gaining, losing ground? As I closed in on the finish with 200 yards to go, the crowd was fantastic. Loud, full of energy, but unfortunately, completely incapable of telling me what I wanted to know. I'd point backwards (towards my shoulder), asking, "How far back?" Just to be told, "That's right - you're the man! You did it!"

As I powered onto the grass, I gave everything I had left and just kicked as hard as I could. My heart was pounding in my ears - my breath was coming in deep, loud whooshes - both hamstrings were absolutely ready to jump up and knot themselves over my shoulders. But despite all that - despite all the suffering that comes with spending the entire day on the rivet, as I crossed the line, none of that mattered.

My run split was a 58:01, good enough for 119th out of 383 - 8:20 pace. I ended up with a 2:38:20, 14th out of 34 in 35-39. Not top 10, but I don't think I could have gone any faster.

As I was doubled over debating the merits of fainting on the grass, or puking first and then fainting, I felt a heavy hand pat my back. "DUDE. I ran a 7:01 last mile, and I couldn't catch you. That was awesome." I told him, "Dude, you had me scared the entire time. It was all I could do not to look back. Thanks for the chase!"

There's always somebody out there. Someone to chase, or someone chasing you. It's never at a good moment; you're usually at the end of your rope, but so is he (or she). Yet you always seem to find more speed in those moments - you push each other beyond what you knew to be the limit. Sometimes it works out, sometimes it doesn't. When I look around in transition pre-race, so many times I think, "He's so fit. I wish I was that fit. I wish I was that fast. I wish... I wish..."

I never really saw myself in that role, but I bet there's someone out there looking at me just the same. Funny to think that way, but maybe, just maybe, there is.