Ironman Canada 1999: A Noble Thing
FRIDAY, JUNE 30, 2000
“We have climbed the mountain,
There’s nothing more to do.
It is terrible to come down
to the valley
Where, amidst many flowers,
One thinks of snow…
It might be possible to live in the valley,
To bury oneself among flowers,
If one could forget the mountain,
How, setting out before dawn,
Blinded with snow,
One knew what to do.”
--“Here in Katmandu,” Donald Justice
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“The silent hours steal on,
and flaky darkness breaks within the east.
In brief,--for so the season bids us be,--
Prepare thy battle early in the morning,
And put thy fortune to the arbitrement
Of bloody strokes and mortal-starting war.”
--“King Richard III,” William Shakespeare
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I. PRELUDE
Two days of preparation meant that little had to be done after waking at 4 a.m. Having showered, dressed and eaten, I donned fleece pants and wind jacket, filled my bike bottles, packed them in my swim bag, grabbed my special needs bags and opened the door to the darkness.
Rain! Where did that come from? It was only a bit cloudy last night. But it’s not raining much. Get walking, Lee.
I quietly strode down Lakeshore Drive, the rain from drippy to slow drizzle, occasionally encountering a fellow athlete, seeing others sorting gear, backlit, in the stark ceiling lights of their hotel rooms. (Why didn’t they do this yesterday?) Yet others were being driven to the Peach (a small building shaped and painted to resemble a huge, real peach).
The Lakeside Hotel was lit like a beacon in the pre-dawn night. As I approached, suddenly loud rock music boomed out from the tents beside the hotel. Won’t this awake and irritate the residents living near the beach? The music was just as suddenly turned down, but it still provided a clue that today was to be a day of excitement.
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“I grow old under an intensity of
Of questioning looks. Nonsense,
I have to say, I cannot teach you children
How to live.—If not you, who will?”
--“Mirror,” James Merrill
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II. CRISIS OF CONFIDENCE
I was struck dumb with revelation and self doubt. Who was I to be doing Ironman? What entitled me to be so selfish? I had played on the goodwill of my spouse for years of training and convoluted our lives to adapt to my training and racing schedules. I had rushed into and out of work for years. I had interjected my training, racing and Ironman goal into far too many conversations. How selfish of me. I could not follow through and do this race. It had cost far too much in time, money, and, especially, personal interactions to justify me spending yet another full day trying to revel in my ultimate selfish desire.
I looked in the bathroom mirror, shaken by my thoughts. After the Saturday a.m. swim, final gear packing and bike check-in, I had been at odd ends. No planned activities, no training to divert the mind, just time to kill. I should be resting. But I could not, suddenly having no preparation, planning or training to do. It was just me and my thoughts (having sent my spouse to the pool). I had wandered downtown Penticton and The Bike Barn. I had wandered my mind and come face-to-face with a part of me that I had been avoiding, the very adult me, the father/husband me, the me that believes we should be giving back, not taking, not using, the me that had led me from business to United Way as my career.
Giving back. That thought suddenly struck me. In some way, was my race giving to others? So many people were amazed that I could and would do Ironman. So many people expressed admiration that I was actually taking on this challenge at 50 plus. If I walked away now, what would that say? That the dedication and sacrifice was wasted? That is was meaningless? That I had been living a misguided life? No, I didn’t believe that. Ironman was the epitome of goal setting and achievement. For me, it said that one could set a huge goal, prepare for it and achieve it. It said that ordinary humans were capable of so much more than they gave themselves credit for. It said that we were duty bound by the act of creation and existence to make the most of ourselves in our time on this world. Ironman was a way that I could demonstrate to others how much we all are capable of, to act out my long-held and firm belief that the greatest limits on ourselves were the ones we accepted or imposed on ourselves. In this light, backing out now, quitting, not following through, not doing the race would be a direct repudiation of a core belief and would not set the example and teach what I hoped that pursing Ironman would achieve for others, much less for me.
I looked in the mirror. Lee, I said, any high goal has a measure of self in it, because you must dedicate yourself to achieve it. In this case, you can be the example you want to be and at the same time can get the personal satisfaction and joy that you know you will feel completing Ironman Canada. To negate the investment you have made and at the same time to negate the contributions of others to your goal would be the ultimate selfish, foolish, misguided act.
I breathed deeply and suddenly my high anxiety level began to subside. This was a seminal moment for me, after three long years of training for Ironman Canada.
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“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light—not our darkness—that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There’s nothing enlightening about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us, it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates us.”--Nelson Mandela, inaugural speech, 1994
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III. JOURNEY TO THE START
My Ironman Canada quest began in 1996. As five-year triathlete, I was looking for more challenges, but I had steadfastly said that I was not interested in racing Ironman distance. Too long, too hard, too much training required, too much of a commitment needed. But these were not the truth, only excuses. I was scared and cowed by the thought of Ironman. If not the ultimate test, it certainly was a daunting one, one that few weekend amateur athletes could realistically take on.
Oh, on paper perhaps I could do Ironman. I had run several marathons. I had ridden several centuries. I knew what it was like to compete with world-class athletes when my daughter and I both skated in U.S. national speedskating competitions, she much better than I.
Then, on the Internet I discovered rec.sport.triathlon. This newsgroup of triathletes was intriguing. Some were experienced, some were new, most were friendly and helpful. Over several months I was sucked into their world. And I was lured by a group training for Ironman Canada. No race compares, they said. Once you do it, you are hooked. If we can do Ironman, you can too. Somehow Tricia Richter a.k.a. Tri-Baby dubbed me Tri-Hard. I was one of the group. Then Jason Mayfield intrigued us (Ok, we thought he was crazy) with Ironman-length rides on his Computrainer and Rolf Arands and Augie Calabrese wove their net around us with enticing race reports from IMC. When Jason challenged me to take on Ironman Canada 1997, I was compelled to say “Yes!”
Oh my God! What have I done? I had gotten an application, a bank draft in Canadian dollars and applied. I was accepted.
Thus began months of training. My longest swim had been 1,500 meters. I swam much longer. I upped my weekly training by many hours. I did some unexpected consulting work and earned enough to acquire a true triathlon bike, a Quintana Roo Te Quilo. I rode and ran much more than ever before.
The months crawled by, but August 1997 approached. Was I ready? Well, no, but the race date was not going to change and I was going to meet it. No matter that I could not get my new bike to shift properly from small to large chain ring, despite the work of three bike shops. No matter than I had a growing pain above my right ankle, a stress fracture from ramping up my training too fast, too hard.
I got to Port Angeles, Washington, a few days before the race, when my quest for Ironman Canada 1997 was abruptly terminated. My wife slipped on Hurricane Ridge and broke her ankle badly, in two places. After surgery, several days later, the Thursday before the race, I gathered in my disappointment, smiled, and said of course, Sherry, I will stay with you and help you and not lay this burden on your aunt and uncle (with whom we were staying).
A few weeks later, after Ironman Canada 1998 filled up much faster than ever before and my application was too late to make the cut-off, I was doubly disappointed. But then I found Vineman in Santa Rosa, California, got in, trained even more, overcame another stress fracture (and did not get sick with leptospirosis after doing the Springfield Ironhorse , as did many competitors) and found myself at an Ironman starting line in late July, 1998.
The swim was slow but easy, below the redwoods, in the shallow waters of the Russian River. Upstream, downstream, upstream, downstream. Of the 600 would-be-Ironmen, I was among the last to get on my bike and ride up the hill from the transition area. Then the two-loop bike course flew by, taking me through trees and around the Alexander Valley, past dusty vineyards and up and down rolling hills. The first time, Chalk Hill was hard, harder than Illinois hills because its length, but I defeated it (despite a bike that still shifted unreliably). The second time, the hill was very hard—I nearly walked. In the 12 miles past 100, my ride slowed; I was very uncomfortable. Only one century-length ride and few more over 50 miles in length had not prepared me adequately. But there was the run! I was a marathoner, right? I could do this. The first few miles, yes I could, but slowly as my leaden legs only reluctantly came alive. After a few miles the run took us on a trail through the grapevines at La Crema winery. Ouch! What was that, a thigh twinge? Ohhh. A cramp is developing. Slower, maybe it will go away. That’s better! Up to speed again. Back to the road. A little hill. Ow! A much larger cramp. Take it down to a much slower run. The cramp subsides. But for the next 18 miles or so, my pace was very slow and I battled cramps in both thighs. But I never walked, except through aid stops. Finally, the last three miles, I started running on my heels…and it worked! My pace upped to nine-minute-miles. I finished in the cool night, with smile on my face because I was an Ironman. 14:08. Not the 13 hours or less I had told my spouse to expect. But I was an Ironman.
But my Vineman finish was only an introduction, not the main course. Ironman Canada still loomed out there, beckoning me. This is the best race. This is the real thing. This is ground zero for weekend triathletes like me (with Ironman Hawaii looming there too, but not a realistic goal for a mid-pack triathlete who could not expect to qualify except through winning the race entry lottery).
I tracked my Internet companions—now as a member of a Onelist group dedicated to Ironman Canada competitors--through the blazing heat of Ironman Canada 1998. I entered Ironman Canada 1999 as early as possible. I received my confirmation in the mail. I was in! More months of hard training, a new bike frame that was not cracked and therefore shifted well, many longer bike rides, with two more than 112 miles, more long swimming, riding Illinois hills in top gear to build bike strength, and many long bricks to get my legs in shape so they would not lock up as they did in California.
My friends joked that I should not allow Sherry out of the car between the Calgary airport and Penticton, B.C., the race site, in the south central part of the province. But we explored, toured, walked in Alberta and British Columbia, and were in awe in the Canadian Rockies, in Banff, at Lake Louise and driving through Yoho, Glacier and Revelstoke National Parks.
We gawked at 45-mile long Okanagan Lake as we rolled south to Penticton on Thursday afternoon (and I thought I saw the serpent that allegedly lives in the lake surface, swim and roil the water before again submerging), groused about our substandard hotel room, unpacked and ate dinner before turning in.
I swam and registered the next day and then built my bike. Much of the afternoon was spent touring the bike course. That evening Sherry and I wandered over to the Carbo-Load Banquet where we got to know many Onelisters and their spouses while waiting to get in to eat.
We Onelisters took over tables to the side and tried to be attentive to the speeches recognizing the volunteers, the notables participating and the sponsors, but our attention drifted, with the big race looming in but a few hours. A dialogue between all-star triathlete Dave Scott and race director Graham Frazier was enlightening and engaging, as they talked about the race and the course.
We snapped to attention when our own Bob Mina suddenly stepped to the podium and thanked the volunteers on behalf of the athletes. How terrific to do this! Way to go, Bob. His heartfelt speech generated cheers and applause not just from us, but from the several thousand people amassed in the hall.
By this time Sherry had left the room looking for anything but IMC/triathlon to talk about, listen to and focus on. It was OK. We as opposites long ago recognized that at times like this we could not expect the other to be engrossed in our passion. It was enough for me that she was a good enough sport to come to Penticton and support me in the first place.
The banquet ended with inspiring video footage of last year’s race. Tomorrow I would be on that course. The awesome nature of that fact hit me hard. I could not wait.
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“Has the fight begun? May it begin!
The presentiment enchants my mind
That they shall soon give in!
And free the daughters of the blind
From hurt by their own kind!
For God will see some noble thing
Before this day is over.
Forevisioning the fight, and proud,
Would I could be a soaring dove
And circle the tall cloud;
So might I gaze down from above
On the melee I love.
For God will see some noble thing
Before this day is over.
And you shall see some noble thing
Before this day is over.
Stern Pallas, hear us! Apollo, hear!
Hunter and sister who give chase
To the swift and dappled deer:
Be our protectors! Lend your grace
To our land and our race!
And you shall see some noble thing
Before this day is over.”
--“Oedipus at Colonus,” Sophocles
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IV. WAITING
“Boom!”
The start cannon went off…but it wasn’t the cannon, it was thunder, with lightning.
I was sitting in the changing tent, with Art Hutchison, Dusty Davis and other Onelister’s. Our banter had been light as we greased up and pulled on our wetsuits. But nature’s artillery blast cranked up our anxiety levels a notch. Would the storm clear out by swim time? Would they delay an Ironman start for lightning? No one knew for sure, the uncertainty adding to the silent gnawing of our stomachs.
A little thing, but I was even more anxious because in all my preparation I had not brought any pre-race food or energy drink, just water. How could I have overlooked this in all my meticulous planning and organizing?
After a while, the tent felt closer, confining. I had to pace, so I wished my changing-tent companions luck and wandered out into the light rain, on a broad field of black-clad warriors girding, pacing, worrying, meditating.
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“The sea has caught you.
Have you the strength to swim out? You are human,
And you will be really happy only when
You count your blessings, and they add up to more
Than your sorrows.”
--“Hippolytus,” Euripides
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V. WE BEGIN
I had not fully imagined the awesome sight of 1,770 competitors arrayed in a semicircle on a beach and into the water, up to a very long line barrier, festooned with Ironman Canada pennants. Nor had I anticipated the upwelling emotions I was experiencing.
This was it, the real thing. I was at the starting line of Ironman. Oh my God!
After a short warm-up swim I had lined up toward the back of the assembly, being a “sea slug,” not wanting 1,500 or more racers to swim over me in their quest for the first orange buoy several hundred meters out. At my request, a fellow “let’s stay back’er” who had been peering out at the water pointed out the buoys outlining the long triangular course, perhaps a mile or so of buoys to the first houseboat, a right turn and a half-mile of buoys to the second house boat, another right turn and then the final mile of buoys back to the beach. Kayaks and all manner of boats lined the course. A helicopter whirred overhead. The clouds were breaking up to expose blue sky underneath.
I looked over to the gate where I had walked onto the beach. Yup, Dave Scott was still standing there. My new good buddy, Dave. Weird, huh, I thought. Last night one of the most famous American pro Ironmen and I were casually chatting about this race. Dave had been brought over to talk to me at the pre-race VIP cocktail reception at the Art Gallery of the Okanagan (where I drank water). I’d gotten tickets as part of the VIP package in which I had enrolled Sherry, hoping that it would engage her and add to her enjoyment of Penticton and the race while I was preparing and then racing. Turns out that only a few athletes’ spouses had been enrolled, so the Tri-Sport folks were going out of their way to connect the few of us “pay for VIP treatment” types with the notables in attendance, including Dave. I had spotted Dave at the hors de oeuvres table minutes after arriving, but had felt that as an “ordinary athlete” I should not bother him nor pull him away from the Subaru representatives and other muckety mucks who were paying for his attendance and attention.
But here was Dave, served up to talk with me!
After exchanging pleasantries, I searched for sparkling questions. All I could come up with was banal. I asked if he still lived in Davis, California. He said no, Boulder. I should have known that! But his sister, was she still teaching swimming? “Everybody seems to know all about me,” he said to a VIP standing next to him. What was that? Did I offend him? Why didn’t I ask him something insightful like what was he thinking while he was racing in Hawaii neck and neck with Mark Allen?
“So what’s your goal for tomorrow?” Ok, Dave, that’s much better than my feeble attempts. But, gulp, this is Dave Scott asking me, Mr. Middle of the Pack Amateur. If I say anything with the hours in the double digits, he’ll know that I’m a faker here crashing the party. Oh, hell, he probably already has figured that out!
“Anything under 14 hours. I did 14:08 at Vineman last year.”
“Why not shoot for something faster. 12:45. You can do that!”
Whoa! Here’s Mr. Ironman telling me that I’m going to go sub-13. What do I say to that? Something tentative. “I’ll try!”
“You’ll do it!”
Positive thinking. That’s why he is a winner. Did he know something about my training that I didn’t?
“You better go home and get off your feet.”
Yes, Dave, you are right. I appeared to be the only competitor at the party. I said my good-byes, peeled my wife away from the other VIPs she had connected with and we walked to our car. “Did you know who I was just talking with? That was Dave Scott!” Well, maybe if I’d said Michael Jordan or Sammy Sosa, then she would have gotten the idea.
Nonetheless, the reception did hasten a big turnaround in Sherry’s attitude about Ironman Canada. She was humoring me in a major way by coming to Penticton. To her, it was a big fraternity party and she was not a member nor wanted to wear a toga. Crummy room at the Riverside, town overflowing with tri-geeks who could talk about little besides the race, husband strange with anxiety. Not the makings of our typical upscale vacation—such as the week we’d spent in the lap of luxury in Prague and Budapest in the spring.
But a nice reception at the art gallery where people fell all over her—and volunteers who had a life outside of triathlon and really did want to talk about things that interested her. That was a start!
“12:45!” I had smiled as I spoke to Dave at the gate and walked on to the beach.
“You can do it!” His words were encouraging. I had told myself I could. But deeper down I knew that it was a daunting goal for me.
Boom!
This time it was the start cannon. 1,770 rubber-clad lemmings herded into the water. Ahead they were walking, dolphining, swimming, walking even further out. My feet found rocks, but only at water’s edge. The water was shallow for a long way out. I, too, walked, swam, walked again, and finally started swimming in earnest. The water temperature was nice—68 degree Fahrenheit--just like Lake Michigan on a good day. Only small waves and little wind. Ideal, really.
A kick in the leg here, an elbow grazing my side there, a tap or two on the head. Yep, triathlon is a contact sport. But I’ve learned to use my feet, hands, elbows and knees to assertively create a space around me that tends to ward off much of the potentially harmful body contact.
I settled into my stroke. Reach, glide, pull. Kick. My heart rate was not too high. That was good for finishing, but lousy for a good swim time. Oh well, I knew my limitations and current swimming ability. I was just looking to better my 1:38 swim at Vineman. Maybe if I could swim in Lake Michigan even more and get rid of my chlorine allergy so I could stand long pool swims more often—or join a masters’ swim team or take a Total Immersion swim clinic. Then I would get faster!
But not today. Nonetheless, after a while the faster swimmers left me behind and I and what seemed like a dozen other slow folks forged along the buoys to the first houseboat.
So far so good. I’d made it off the starting line at IMC!
I wondered whether Sherry had heeded the words of her shepherds at the cocktail party. They had urged her not to miss the start, which they called “incredible” and “unforgettable.”
Little did I know that she had been yakking with ex-Prime Minister Joe Clark before he and the Mayor of Penticton shot off the start cannon, and that while I was wondering whether she had made it out of bed she was drinking champagne at the VIP breakfast on the pier, talking to the ex-First Lady of Canada about child welfare issues.
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“Could she possibly have swum the whole night in place? She was overcome with despair, and the moment she lost hope her arms and legs seemed to lose their strength, and the water felt unbearably cold. She closed her eyes and tried to keep swimming.”
--“The Book of Laughter and Forgetting,” Milan Kundera
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VI. REAL FRIENDS
My own personal kayak? Did that mean that I was last and the kayaker was “sweeping” me in? No, I could spy other swimmers around me and behind me as I stroked and rolled. But it did seem that for much of the race the kayak, just inside the buoys, was pacing my swim.
Around the second houseboat. Tight on the turn buoy. Umph! That was a nasty kick in my right elbow. Get away from this kicker by pulling a little to the left, a bit away from the line of buoys to the finish. And who is this trying to crawl up my feet? Kick harder and they get the hint, sliding to my left. Amazing that after almost an hour of swimming we still are colliding with one another like bumper cars.
The first 2,400 meters seemed long. But I was still keeping form, stroking along. I peered forward, sighting. No sign of the hotel at the finish. But the sun was still behind a cloud bank, so at least I could spot the next buoy to target.
It was a beautiful day in a beautiful place. Just like it was for my first morning swim in Okanagan Lake three days earlier. I had awoken at 6:30 a.m., pulled on my Speedo, wolfed down a cinnamon raisin bagel, my multivitamins and a glass of orange juice, grabbed my wetsuit, goggles, swim cap and sports bag, and walked two blocks to the beach next to the Sicamous, a relic paddlewheeler that had been turned into a beached museum.
This was our group’s meeting place. Through the week a growing number of “virtual” friends had been gathering in “real time” at this beach for a fun swim to start the day. By Friday, the group numbered about 35.
I was a newcomer, so I was quiet and observant as I plopped my bag in the middle of the group standing on the grass strip next to the beach. I started pulling on my wetsuit, then added my yellow swim cap with the words “LeePublish@aol.com” and “Tri-Hard” written on it boldly in black.
I heard a few names I recognized. Kathy. Terri. Tony. He seems like a nice guy—with a strong Canadian accent. Mike, the “London Life” agent with such a positive attitude. Hey, that’s Tina Hoeben, the Penticton swim coach! I recognize her from the program showing IMC board members. Bruce. Pete. That’s IronPete. Quite an athlete. He’s younger than I imagined.
I idly chatted with a few people around me, about the weather, the water, the schedule, whatever, still listening to other conversations and scanning the growing crowd as they suited up and stood around.
Who’s that tall blond woman? Isn’t that Tri-Baby? Tricia Richter, Stanford biochemist, the glue of our Internet-based group of triathletes? The person who dubbed me “Tri-Hard” and defended me when a cyberspace interloper tried to steal my name? Author of some of the best race reports ever written? “Is that Tricia?” I asked a fellow group member. Yes, I was told. I introduced myself. She hugged me. Just like we were long lost friends. “You finally made it, Lee! Didn’t I tell you this was the place to be?”
“Where’s Jason,” I asked about the guy who had goaded me into doing IMC. ‘He’s still in bed,” answered a person I soon learned to be Bob Mina. “He was up late last night and would rather sleep.”
Soon we were filing slowly into the water. “How far do we swim,” I asked. “Not far,” someone said. He was right. We swam 50 meters to a wooden raft anchored in the lake. Soon we were seeing how many people could stand on the raft before it sunk. I think at one point we reached 27, grounding the raft. From time to time the raft would tilt and bodies would fly off. We had a belly flop contest off the raft. We were children frolicking in the lake.
After the swim we stood for a long while talking on the shore.
Now as I close in on the 2.4 mile mark, the shore creeps ever-closer, only the hotel first in sight, then, through wet goggles, the tents, the Peach, and finally banners, spectators and an ant line of black-clad triathletes crawling from the water unsteadily onto the shore, fumbling with zippers and beginning to peel down wetsuits. My turn at the back of line finally arrives as I scramble again to my feet and stumbled across the rocks (flashback to stubbing my toe badly the year before coming out the water at Vineman—be careful!). I too unzip and rip off my cap and goggles. There’s the lawn. Suddenly I am on my back and a guy is peeling my wetsuit off. Great valet service!
Then I am I up and running through the racks. I am vaguely aware of music, excitement and other triathletes mimicking my actions around me, but my intense focus is on the task at hand. I grab my transition bag—and quickly sit on the lawn again against a fence. No changing room needed. I am going to, perhaps foolishly, ride the 112 miles in my padded De Soto swim suit. I am warm enough and (foolish vanity) I will look cooler! To hell with comfort—that would take changing time to achieve. On with my wonderful red r.s.t. jersey adorned with the Canadian maple leaf (thank you, Jason). Stuff my jersey with Powergel, on with bike shoes, helmet and dark Oakleys. On with sun tan lotion. Be liberal with it. Sun’s now out! Hand off the bag to a volunteer. (Another personal valet! I could love this!) Take a lightning-fast side trip to relieve myself. Grab a cup of water.
Where’s the entrance to the bike area—oh, that’s right, behind the tent. To my bike—in a little bump-out closest to the hotel. Easy to find, also because it is one of the few left. (Yeah, my watch shows I did the swim in 95 minutes. I’m still a sea slug!) Run the bike through the transition exit before the band shell, click in, punch my watch, and I’m off, suddenly out of the controlled chaos of the “athletes-only zone” of transition into the public world, pedaling strongly around the corner and up Main Street through cheering hoards of spectators. What an adrenaline rush!
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“We were in the foothills on the near side of the river and as the road mounted there were the high mountains off to the north with snow still on the tops….We climbed though the hills and then went down over the shoulder of a long hill into a river valley….The road went up the valley a long way and then we turned off and commenced to climb into the hills again. The road climbed steeply on up and back and forth through chestnut woods to level finally along a ridge. “
--“A Farewell to Arms,” Ernest Hemingway
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VII. AN UNNERVING HILL
Lake Skaha sliding by on the right and rock faces on the left, amid fellow riders, bright sun, beautiful day. What a wonderful thing, to be doing just about what I love most, riding fast, in Ironman Canada yet!
Hmm. Need to start hydrating. Take a drink of Gatorade—one of what will be so many, I’m sure. Now don’t forget to eat a Powergel every 45 minutes, Lee!
Let’s think about the course. Oh yeah, there’s a little hill here soon. Left turn onto McClean Creek Road. Yeah, the map in my head says that this is it. This ought to be no problem. Especially with a bike that shifts well, unlike in Vineman last year. Up we go. Shift lower and lower and begin to grind. Well, I’ll make it up, but I do observe other riders flying by. I guess the hills in Illinois aren’t the same. (Except for Galena, we ain’t got none to speak of.) What does my ability only to creep up this minor hill say for the rest of the ride?
Well, one reason that I’m going slow now is that Bob Mina burned into my head the idea that overdoing in the 40-mile section before Osoyos would mean that a price would be paid on the tougher portion of the course starting with Richter Pass.
Two days earlier, we r.s.t.’ers had met in front of the Lakeside Hotel for a bike course inspection tour and all-around fun expedition. I hopped in a van with Tricia. Great luck! The driver was Skippy, Tricia’s renowned friend and tremendous support crew! With Tricia and Skippy was Bob Mina, who I soon discovered was just as warm, funny and articulate in real life as he seemed on the net. We chattered about Penticton, the bike course and much else, and told stories, which both served to pass on IMC lore and advice and to reduce stress. I reminded Bob of one my favorite Onelist posts of the summer, which entailed him and arch competitor/friend Eric Weiss jacking up their rivalry and resulted in their having a extremely hot-weather foot race which ended in melting in a pool of sweat. (“Help! Help! I’m melting,” said the wicked witch.)
Soon we rolled into Overwaitea, which for several years had mystified me. What the heck was it? Turns out to be one of the largest supermarkets around. The name is Indian, right? Nope. “Over weight tea” described the portions it had sold customers sometime in the past. A convoy of Onelist vehicles descended on Overwaitea, and for what seemed like precious hours the course tour was delayed while a bevy of triathletes blanketed the store to find all sorts of food and drink—and marking chalk.
At Overwaitea I solved a vexing problem: How to take in the salt that I knew was important to consume later on the course to avoid dangerous electrolyte imbalance due to over-hydration. I had not trained with straight salt or salt tablets; I was worried that with that approach I might over consume salt and not feel good as a result. Pringles were just the thing, Bob and others assured me. Thus, I emerged with several cans of the very salty, melt-in-your-mouth chips, plus all sorts of other food and water, too.
Hurry, hurry to Husky, the next stop, was the rallying cry. Turns out the Husky service station at Osoyos, near the U.S. line, is a turning point (both literally and figuratively) in the race. Literally because you do ride through the station and turn onto a road going northwest and figuratively because the mostly flat section ends here and Richter Pass approaches. It was the section up to this point that was the subject of Bob’s caution about riding too hard.
After a short stop for gas and, for some, ice cream, it was time to make the turn on to Highway 3 and then motor on up Richter. This was the “big time” that I’d been hearing about for so long. Yep, to me it looked fairly steep, and, perhaps even more daunting, long. This damn thing went on and on, winding up and around, flattening and then getting steeper again. Up went my anxiety.
But then stress relief arrived in the form of “chalking.” Several times our caravan of cars stopped so we could mark up the wide shoulders with generic messages such as “Keep on Cranking!” or specific ones with racer names such as Jason’s and personal messages of encouragement or humor. Soon the shoulders of Richter looked like they had been attacked by an urban graffiti gang with weird taste in pastel colors.
Time was waning, so the drive resumed, getting faster, now with no more stops because of the slipping away of the afternoon. The rollers after Richter were commented on, the Cawston out-and-back took forever to come up and be noted, Yellow Lake and its false summit were traversed, and then down, down, down we went to the shore of Skaha Lake and back into Penticton. (Will the descent be too close to out-of-control or a hoot? Time will tell…) Quite a course. Was I really going to race this in two days?
Well, now I am about to really race it, just as soon as I arrive at the Husky station for the second time in three days. But where is it? This opening section is taking forever. Spin, spin, spin. There! A Canadian flag and the Husky sign in the distance. More pedaling and then the course takes me through the station and around the turn to the west and then to the foot of Richter Pass. Gulp. Now it begins!
I roll along for a few minutes and then the land tilts up and to the right, more to the north. Richter! I am there, what was to me is epitome of IMC. And now I am riding up a steepening hill unlike any I’ve ever ridden before, being a flatlander. How will I do? This, for me, is the test. Others would be cowed by the swim or the marathon. I can swim forever, far too slowly for sure, and I had done nine marathons before IMC, including two in the past 12 months. No problem! I had ridden 112 miles three times before, so that was not a problem. But the hills. I had ridden a little in the mountains in Colorado when I was in college in Ft. Collins, but not seriously. This is serious.
I start up. Not bad… Crank, crank, crank, shift lower, shift lower, crank, crank, crank. Sit up, breathe harder, sweat some in the growing warmth, stand a little, but mostly sit. Still, not bad. I can do this! I even start passing people, even while I’m being passed too. Maybe Chalk Hill at Vineman was the start of some good preparation for this.
Hey, there’s the spot where we started chalking. Almost all washed out by the early morning rain. Too bad! But the memory of the chalk messages brought a smile to my face and inspired me to “keep on cranking.”
How about these people at the roadside, cheering us on! Now that’s inspiring, too. All in all, this is not the horrible climb I had been worried about. I’m climbing slowly, but riding every hill I could find in the Midwest flatland in top gear appears to have helped build my climbing legs. Whew!
Another more “up” section and the second chalking site. Yes, some of the messages have survived. And there are other messages in the middle of the lane, obviously applied today. I’m sweating more, but still no problem. This is work, but I can handle it without walking, weaving, stopping or blowing up.
Finally the top. A little speed going down feels good, but it is short-lived. Now we are into the rollers, which I had been warned can be seductively hard and underestimated. I’m not underestimating them, but find them much like the riding I had done at races such as Galena and Lake Geneva, which offer up plenty of smaller hills like the rollers. This, too, I can handle.
Onward I spin and crank, drinking water and Gatorade alternately, eating Powergel every 45 minutes. Despite growing soreness in my shoulders, this is not a problem yet. I can do this!
I quell my impatience to get going on the Cawston out-and-back, remembering Bob, Tricia and Rolf Arand’s accounts of how long it seems to take to start this stretch. Aren’t we humans blessed by having the ability to learn and to in part govern our thoughts and behavior based on knowledge passed on by others?
There. Ahead. The right turn on Beck’s Road (just like the beer, said Gordo Byrne). I take the turn and wind up eventually riding back south on Upper Bench Road, aside a row of high hills (low mountains?), giving up seemingly all the progress made going north on Highway 3. Even knowing I will experience this emotion at this spot doesn’t make it easier.
What does make it more fun and easier is starting to see many red maple leaf r.s.t. jerseys fly by the other way, post-turnaround. Bob! Tricia! Many more.
Despite the “red jersey hunt,” I fall into a semi trance. Little about the countryside registers. Spin, spin, spin for a seeming infinity. I’m lulled, asleep while awake. I’ve been here plenty of times before on long rides, but I did not expect to find this place in a race, especially at IMC.
This ride the wrong way is taking forever. I can see cyclists way over on Highway 3 headed for the part of the course I am now on. Many riders continue to pass me post-turn-around, headed the right way. This is disconcerting! I feel as though I’m riding through mud, the progress seems so minimal.
Finally, after seeming years of riding, I spy the turn-around. This means I am more than halfway. Hooray! The road is clogged with riders standing around. Why? Were they resting? I am handed my special needs bag on the fly and then ride up to a port-a-potty and stop to use it and then dig into my bag. I munch down a bit on the turkey sandwich I’d prepared, eat some Pringles and pour the once-frozen and now just cold Gatorade into my bike bottle . The rest of the bag, except more Powergel, is tossed and I quickly forge ahead, leaving behind the sight of a couple stopped together to eat two huge submarine sandwiches with seemingly everything on them. How would they go down on a stomach from which blood flow was being diverted by overworked muscles. Not something I’d want to try!
Now I’m flying back along Upper Bench Road the right direction. More red jerseys. There’s Jason. “So you want to be an Ironman,” I yell, in homage to the line he, Tricia and others had picked up from an old Ironman Hawaii broadcast and used at previous IMCs to inspire one another.
A couple of turns and it’s back on the road to Penticton. More riding and I’m in that segment where I always find it hardest—miles 65-85. Why is that? One good thing—my shoulders feel better. I’ll bet they stiffened because I gripped my bars awfully tight climbing Richter. It just took awhile after rollers to relax a little.
I am now thinking about the approach of Yellow Lake. With relish. I know I can do the climb and I find myself looking forward to sailing down the other side. Bring it on! I love riding, especially in this time and place!
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“Like birds on the wing borne by their own speed,
Swept down the fields by the river Asopos.”
--“The Bacche,” Euripides
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VIII. THE DESCENT
The road starts up. This climb is steeper than Richter Pass, but I know it is shorter. Again I pass some and other pass me. I say encouraging words to those I pass and likewise cheer on those who pass me. We are all having a great time, aren’t we?
Even more spectators are along the road here than on Richter. I start feeling as though I’m in the alps, on Alp de Huez in the Tour de France, climbing as part of the world’s greatest bicycle stage race. I’m Lance, baby! This is more fun than it is hard! Sit up, crank, crank, stand a little, sit again and crank. More spectators are cheering and encouraging us to “keep it up!” and building our confidence by telling us “you’re looking great!”
Cars are at a stop, with people lounging on and around them, watching us labor by in the other lane. They’ve shut down the road for us. Cool! This is big-time!
I’ve been playing cat and mouse with a guy who won’t stay passed. I pass him, and a few minutes later he passes me yet again. I’m not letting up, so he must be surging and then laying off. OK. I’ve been racing far too long to accept this. I can surge above my current climbing level. There he is. Now for a clean pass in and out of his zone, with no blocking. I pass him once and for all. See yah! As I continue to the top where the road splits twin lakes, I realize that on Yellow Lake I’ve passed a lot more than passed me.
Bob was probably right cautioning me not to overdo on the first 40 miles. But coming from speedskating I’ve have pretty strong quads and can push a gear better than many triathletes. I feel like I have too much left physically at this point on the bike. All summer I had been going pretty well all-out on the bike, even at the Muncie Endurathon Half Ironman race. I would be looking at a considerably better time than the 6:45 or so I now project had I used the opening flat section to put some valuable time in the bank by cranking at 20 mph plus rather than 17-18 mph.
Ahh, climb done, here’s the top! Hooray! Oops. Take it easy, Lee. This is where Bob pointed out that more climbing was still ahead; he called this point a false summit. Yes, here’s the up section again. Crank, sit up, crank, stand, crank, crank. Here’s the real top. Now I can say I really did it!
Over the top. Let’s see how well I’ve developed my bike handling skills on this touchy 650C-wheeled Quintana Roo Te Quilo. Just as I start to fly, I feel a pain. Ouch! I grab at my jersey on my chest and have the bee or wasp in the fabric between my fingers. Crunch. Take that! Not very Christian of me to destroy a life form that way, but it hurt me! My chest throbs as I pick the squashed insect out of my jersey and toss it overboard. I have thoughts of Tricia being stung at Vineman or Wildflower. I’m not allergic to bee stings, but I have visions of swelling up like the Michelin man and having to stop. Anger surges through me. How dare that insect ruin my race!
Calm down, Lee. The pain is ebbing and the bee belongs here among the fruit trees. I’m the interloper, and no real damage was done (to me, at least).
I refocus on riding just in time for the real downhill. I shift down on my bar ends and push my biggest gear at the highest rpm possible. I peak down at the speedometer and see it get to about 35 mph before I just have to tuck and steer/lean the bike down and around swooping corners. Whee! This is as great a feeling as I had hoped. Unadulterated speed, a jet fighter blasting along all-out at ground level. No need to brake, just go out-in-out on the corners and be sure not to get into the lane with on-coming cars. Oops, that turn seems a little sharper on the approach. I chicken out and brake just a little.
More ups and downs, with my speed carrying me much of the way up and then flat out 16th gear pedaling down the hill to 35 mph and then more tuck-sail-steer and lean. Maximum speeds 45 mph plus. Even higher than on the big downhill at Vineman!
The descent lasts a long time, but still it goes by a lot faster than the climb. Seems unfair, but I’ll trade the time not spent riding downhill for the gain in race time.
Finally the course flattens a little and we turn east along the north side of Skaha Lake. Hey, there’s the beach I have on my computer screen saver, with the guy on his tri-bike riding past it. Now I’m that guy. A dream come true! I get a little emotional. But I have little time for this because very soon the course heads downtown.
The finish is not far ahead now. But what’s this headwind all about? Where did it come from? It’s actually getting a little cool. Oh well, I’m almost off the bike.
I really go flat out now, trying to make 6:45. I put my head down to reduce my wind profile and really work hard. I peek to either side to see increasing throngs of spectators cheering me on. The turnout of spectators and volunteers for this race is amazing! This is big time!
Here are even more people and familiar territory. I went into that bank on the corner yesterday. We are on the parade route we all walked. There’s Hog’s Breath Café on the right. And there’s the athletes’ village on the left. I’m around the final left turn and under the banner into transition.
6:47. Now that was fun!
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“Cowards die many times before their deaths;
The valiant never taste of death but once.
Of all the wonders I yet have heard,
It seems to me most strange that men should fear,
Seeing that death, necessary end,
Will come when it will come.”
--“Julius Caesar,” William Shakespeare
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IX. THE PAIN
I’m 8:30 or so into the race. Race officials wave their arms at me to slow down and then order me to dismount. I run my bike back through clogged transition area lanes to its home, gaining my running legs even on this short segment. Rack the bike, off with the helmet and then hustle out of the bike area back to the lawn and bag racks. Where’s my bag? Oh, wrong row. You are wasting time, Lee.
There’s my run bag. Grab it. Sit down again on the grass, change socks and shoes, trade r.s.t. jersey for red and white De Soto triathlon running singlet (matching my De Soto swim suit), strap on my Fuel Belt with two bottles of Powergel and two of water for downing the gel. Wipe off my sunglasses and take a drink of Gatorade.
Hmm. Here’s a baggie of Pringles chips. Now what was I going to do with these? I taste one. Oh, that salt is wonderful. I down some more. Better save the rest! I tuck the bag into my waist.
Get up, find a volunteer to hand off my bag to, rush into the changing tent to pee, then sprint out of the tent, grab some water off the table next to the run exit, punch my watch and race through the exit, again to cheering crowds.
Now this is more exciting the ever! The crowds have grown! Bleachers are jammed with people! Sherry’s there somewhere, I’ll bet, but I’ll never see her or hear her in this throng. All the way along Main Street people continue to pack the route. Wow! I beam with a grin on my face, waving at spectators as I go. This is world class, big time!
The excitement keeps me from concentrating on my running time or form for a while. But eventually I settle into a 10 minutes-per-mile pace, a little slower than hoped, perhaps, but a good conservative approach for this point.
This was the point where we had begun the Parade of Athletes the evening before. Having checked in our gear and bikes earlier in the day, we had done what we could do to prepare. So why not walk in a parade! We r.s.t.’ers walked as a group, further strengthening our bond and throwing off the curse of the Okanagan Lake monster, Ogopogo, who brings bad luck to competitors who do not walk in the parade. Other competitors walked under banners and flags of their countries, from Hong Kong to Italy to the U.S.A. to Canada (the two largest contingents). It was a colorful procession that spectators lining both sides of Main Street watched.
On the walk I got to know Rob Robertson from Ohio. Before coming to Penticton I compiled a list for our group of all our Onelisters competing. Rob took the list, reproduced it in two-sided card form and brought a laminated card for each of us. I discovered Rob was a tremendous runner, an OK biker, but even less of a swimmer than I am. It was clear that he was worried about next day’s swim. Having done an Ironman distance race, I tried to assure him that he could handle it.
We competitors continued on to the park where we heard talks from officials and Dave Scott. I hung with fellow Onelisters, including Bob, Eric and Jason, then wandered back to my motel room to connect with Sherry and make final preparations for the challenge ahead the next morning.
My preparations were not for naught. Here I am moving down Main Street away from downtown, having raced for nearly nine hours, feeling pretty good. I can handle this run, despite my growing weariness. I feel better than I did at Vineman, that’s for sure. I’m still under-trained, but I am better trained than I was the previous year. Plus, I have Pringles to eat. What a luxury! I munch a small handful.
Suddenly I spot an official car and then a lone runner coming at me. Hey, it’s pro Chuckie V, in the lead. Good for him! He’s had a tough go to get to this spot in his triathlon career. Great that he is having such a good day.
Just a few minutes later along comes number two, a Japanese guy. This man’s pace seems even faster than Chuckie’s. Can he close the gap before the finish? Maybe! I and the runners around me yell encouragement (even though I know I would rather see Chuckie win it).
Slowly the number of on-coming racers grows. Soon Lori Bowden flys by, the number one woman, looking fresh and graceful. Well, she is Canadian and she “owns” this race! Go Lori!
As we continue the crowds thin but spectators still abound. Moms with little kids. Teenagers. Old people. Spouses of competitors anxiously scanning our parade of runners for their tri-mates.
Now I am nearly 10K into the third leg of my quest, still chugging along at a seemingly conservative 10-minutes-a-mile pace. I am not seeing other Onelisters, but that’s OK because on the run I tend be inwardly focused, attuned to my body, including stride and breathing.
I pass guys sitting in lawn chairs on their front lawn, drinking beer. “Hey, got a beer for me?” I ask. “Sure,” they say. Too bad I can’t take them up on the offer. A beer would taste spectacular right now!
Oh, here’s the first meaningful hill, as we begin to wind up along the east side of Skaha Lake. Well, let’s keep on chugging up it. Ouch! Ow! Cramps in the thigh. Just like Vineman. Damn! I though I was trained enough to handle the bike without cramping like this on the run. Guess I was wrong. I walk up most of the hill.
At the top I again begin to run, with fingers crossed. No problem. I can run down, even though I gain my pace back only slowly. Well, that’s better than Vineman. Once the cramping set in, I could not run much again until the last three miles.
The pattern repeats. I run along at 10 minute pace until the next hill. Part way up I cramp. Pain! I walk to the top. I gingerly begin to run down the back side and pick up speed as I go.
Well, I reason, this is sort of like walking through the water stops and running between them. It’s not a strategy I like, finding it hard to resume pace after walking for awhile, but it is the one I’ve adopted today. Unless I can crank up my rate between hills considerably, which now seems highly unlikely, it looks like my dreams of a 4:30 marathon (I’ve run a 3:49 as a single event) and a sub 13-hour finish are dashed. Sorry, Dave!
So now the goal will have to be “beat my Vineman time and go sub-14 hours.” I think I can still do that!
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“But gradually the raucous night around us was swelling with the deeper rumour of the approaching procession. One saw the rosy light of the cressets among the roofs. The streets, already congested, were now black with people. They buzzed like a great hive with the contagion of the knowledge. You could hear the distant bumping of drums and the hissing splash of cymbals, keeping time with the strange archaic peristaltic rhythms of the dance—its relatively slow walking pace broken by queer halts, to enable the dancers, as the ecstasy seized them, to twirl in and out of their syncopated measures and return once more to their places in the line of march. It pushed its way through the narrow funnel of the main street like a torrent whose force makes it overleap its bed; for all the little sides streets were full of sightseers running along, keeping pace with it.”
--“Clea,” Lawrence Durrell
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X. THE FADE
The run along the lake is uneventful, once I get into my run-hill-walk-top-run mode. I’m passing as many competitors as pass me, and we sometimes exchange a few words of encouragement.
I actually am running with a grin on my face, for the most part. How privileged I am, to be able to participate in such an amazing event in such a stunning place. The low sun hangs in the blue sky over the blue lake and above the low mountains beyond. So beautiful!
I am seeing Onelist friends dribble by going back to town, including Pete, Bob and Eric together, and Tricia earlier than I expected to see her. Way to go, girl! She has got be flying high!
I blast through the water stops, grabbing water or Gatorade or both, occasionally stopping to use a port-a-potty, but ever forging ahead.
The miles begin to blur, which is the way it is in the marathon. It seems as my body gets depleted, I must find and ration resources, thus having less energy to use for purposes other than continuing to run. It’s almost a self-preservation state.
What I’m missing most now is something to eat that is more substantial than gel and Gatorade, something salty. I’m long out of Pringles and dying for salt. I know they serve soup at some water stops, but every time I pass through one and ask for soup they say, “Not here.” Damn.
As I continue I note that my mile times are slowing a little from the 10-minutes a mile mark. Not good. If I am going to go “sub 14,” I need to run at least a 5:20 marathon. If I slow too much more, that outcome will be in jeopardy.
I am finally aroused from my mental “power down” mode by the arrival of Okanagan Falls in my field of vision. Civilization! People again line the roadside, yelling encouragement. I smile widely again. What wonderful people to be out here at dinner time on a Sunday night to support us!
The other thing I recognize about Okanagan Falls is that the run turnaround (halfway!) will come up soon. I run part-way up an especially nasty little hill, feel the pain of cramps again, and then walk to the top. It’s my way today.
Turnaround looms up, finally, and I round the turn point. A water stop. Do you have soup? Yes! Oh man, does that chicken rice soup taste great. I also pick up my run special needs bag from a volunteer. Now what’s here? Oh yes, a long-sleeved running jersey. Better tie that around my waist. Don’t need it yet, but it might get cold later. Pringles! Let’s take those. More gel. Yeah, I can carry and use them.
Now I’m restocked and somewhat restored. And, better yet, I’m now headed back to the finish line!
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“We shall soon know whether this relay-race of flame,
this midnight torch-parade, this beacon-telegraph,
Told us the truth, of if the fire made fools of us—
All a delightful dream! Look! There’s a herald coming
Up from the shore, wearing a crown of olive-leaves!
And further off, a marching column of armed men,
Sheathed in hot dust…”
--“Agamemnon,” Aeschylus
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XI. THE GLORY
On the 13.1 mile run back I feel like a clock winding down and rusting at the same time. Body parts move slower and seem to get heavier. My pace slows even more. I become more concerned about finishing before dark, sub-14 hours, which means I need to finish before 9 p.m.
I pass an increasing number of walkers. In one case guys looking for their friend ride by on mountain bikes. I say something to one of them and they ride alongside. We talk and I discover that one of the guys grew up in Lombard, the town next to Glen Ellyn, where I live. A long stretch slips by while we talk.
I am now encountering the back side of the larger hills that I ran down earlier. These are several tough up-hills, even walking.
I begin to think about Onelist friends I have yet to see, including Kathy “I am a woman of action” Matejka, who recovered from amazing physical challenges to do IMC, Rob Robertson the fearful swimmer/great runner, and Jason Mayfield, the person to whom I give the blame/credit for my IMC presence. Here I am and I know I will finish. I dearly hope they will be able to, as well.
Suddenly a tall competitor with bleached hair comes into view. Jason! Great. Better encourage him. “Hey, Jason, keep it up.” I don’t say it, but I’m a little worried he won’t finish before the 17-hour cut-off.
The stretch between the last big hill and the outskirts of town again becomes a blur, as I go back into power-down mode. I am aware of the sun slipping away, of the wind in my face getting cooler, of a growing revulsion to Powergel and Gatorade, of legs getting heavier. And I am also aware in a sort of out-of-body experience that the runner that I am observing—me—is fighting to maintain and even raise his pace so that he will make the sub-14 hour mark.
After a forever amount of time, the outskirts loom up. The beer drinkers have gone inside (but their chairs remain and I want to sit down!). Nonetheless, other spectators are still by the roadside, still cheering us on, even looking in their programs to cross reference our numbers with who we are and where we are from. More than once I hear “Keep it up, Lee from Glen Ellyn!” These spectators are really special. I even start tearing thinking about Canadians I have never met, who live thousands of miles away from me, taking the time late on a Sunday evening to encourage me to achieve my big goal.
Now it is starting to get dark. I’m probably beyond the point where they give competitors running in the night glow sticks for visibility. Well, that’s an achievement. Technically I will finish “before dark,” even if the sun will already be down.
I pick my way amid other quiet runners and walkers as we move into a higher density section of town. At this end of town only a few people are watching us and urging us on. It’s at the point in the marathon where the miles come very hard and very slow. They seem to never end. I have tried not to focus on how many miles I have run and how many are left, but I cannot help but note that I have about three long miles left. Will this ever end?
Meanwhile, the other Lee that I am observing out-of-body is continuing to push despite weariness and the ache of sore, crampy muscles. In fact, the stride lengthens just a little, the turn-over increases just a bit, and the per-mile time improves. Maybe I can make sub-14-hours!
Now I’m on Main Street. It’s the best street in the world right now! I’m running to Okanagan Lake, just a few miles away. I can do this. The smile starts to grow on my face again.
As I proceed up the long street, the spectators grow in number and their encouragement grows in volume. As I continue, streetlights illuminate my way.
This must be a small taste of what DeGaulle felt when he rode into to Paris to officially liberate it. These growing throngs of cheering people and the festooned street and buildings make me feel like I’ve really achieved something.
I’m grinning ear-to-ear now, amidst the din of cheers and bright lights, my arms raised from time to time like a cheerleader or Churchill giving a V for victory. The pain and weariness fade as I stride like a deer toward the headlights of the Lakeside Hotel (or at least that’s how it felt to me).
Yes! Wow! Hooray! I’m getting vocal, demonstrative, excited. Here’s the bank, there’s Hog’s Breathe, now I’m beside the park.
I turn the corner and…there’s the finish line, complete with a finisher tape held up just for me. I again raise my arms in victory, sprint as hard as I can, given my depletion, and lean into the tape, seeing 13:50 on the clock over the finish as I pass through it!
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“The events of destiny have many forms.
The gods perform many things beyond hope.
And what seemed to come never came true,
But, for the unexpected a god found the way.
And so it happened here.”
--“Alcestis,” Euripides
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XII. EPILOGUE
At the finish I was gathered up by two volunteers who made sure I was OK and wrapped me in a space blanket as I shivered. I was given my medal and got my finisher shirt. Sherry magically appeared, hugged me excitedly, and told me she got me on video. She also said she saw me on the television broadcast, and filled me in on her time with the ex-Prime Minister and his wife, drinking champagne on the terrace and all the other fun she had.
I was overwhelmed with emotion, taking it all in, realizing that I had achieved my huge goal!
As we moved to the spot where my finisher picture was to be taken, Sherry announced, “I want to come back next year and volunteer.”
With this stunning declaration, the day was indeed complete. Not only did I achieve my goal, but I knew I could do this wonderful race again in 2000. I could not ask for more in one day.
Thus, the next morning saw me arising much earlier than I wanted to, extremely sore and moving very slowly. As I drove to the Lakeside Hotel I saw Dave Scott running in the rain. I rolled down my window. “Hey, Dave, I did the race. It was great. I didn’t make 12:45, I made 13:50. But I’m really happy with that.” Dave simply said “Congratulations” and ran on.
I wound up standing in line in the rain for hours outside of the Lakeside Hotel to register for 2000. But it was OK. We all were basking in our achievement the day before. I talked for several hours with Gordo Byrne and met a French couple who raced around the world. He waited for a long time for her near the finish so that they could cross the IMC finish line IMC together.
The day ended with the Awards Banquet, where the Onelisters again assembled and bonded even more. We cheered when it was announced that Tricia won the Athena category with an amazing 12:10 finish. We congratulated Jason on his within-the-limit finish. We commiserated with Kathy Matejka about bike problems that kept her from finishing. We wondered what happened to non-finisher Rob Robertson. We absorbed each other’s stories and as a band reveled in the joy of being IMC finishers. Laura Dickinson-Lee, Tony Lyons, Mike Bundy, Mike Randall, Bruce Grant and many others contributed to the mix. We ended the evening with a group picture.
IMC 1999 was an experience that changed us all. We will never forget it. I certainly won’t!
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