..........
My time, 11:55, is 15 minutes off my
best from last year, but then, it's about 15 degrees warmer. It's the
same time as two years ago, when it was about 10 degrees cooler. So I
feel good, all in all.
"You don't look like death warmed over," Cheryl says. Ever since the
first time she saw me finish a 1/2 ironman, 5years ago at Pacific
Crest, she hasn't gotten over the sickly death pall my face had as I
pulled into the finishers' tent after running at altitude in the
midsummer, mid-day sun. She's convinced I'm trying to kill myself, I
guess. So she checks my color: no pallor, not about to die.
"How do you feel?" Cheryl asked. "You look pretty good. You don't look
like death warmed over." Ever since I finished the Pacific Crest Half
at 3 PM in the blazing mountain sun, and nearly passsed out in the
cooling tent at the finish line, she's remembered how bad I looked
then, all dehydrated, salt crusted and pale from exertion and
exhaustion. She didn't like that picture, and has tried to avoid the
finish line ever since.
"Actually, I feel pretty good. I'm just a little drained from sprinting
at the finish to get ahead of a guy who was breathing down my shoulder,
so I'd have a clear finisher photo. I actually fell into the arms of
the catchers, first time I've ever done that. But I don't feel bad. I
feel pretty good. Things got better there in the last mile or so. I
swaer the temperature must have dropped at least five degrees about
6:45, just as I came up the hill from the lake. I wish it had been like
that for the last 10 miles, insterad of just the last one."
I hobbled a bit as we wound our way through the maze to the pizza tent.
I grabbed two slices, a gatorade, and went back to the tree where
Cheryl was waiting with for me in the shade.
I looked in the bag to see what goodies we got this time: in addition
to my medal and T shirt, I now had another wetsuit bag, and another
finishers' running hat. No LIVESTRONG replica wristband, like last
year. No towel, no nothing. No helicopter, fewer goodies ... I'm
sensing a trend here.
Done with the pizza (Cheryl ate the crusts), we headed into the
park
to pick up my stuff. We carefully crossed the run course, with people
going in both directions, all on their second lap by this time, about 2
hours after the bike cutoff. Walking all the way around the transition
zone, I entered through the security gate. Went right to get my bags.
As I entered the men's tent to change, I noticed they were striking the
women's tent. "Where are they going to change after they finished?" I
asked. Got no reply. Getting my bike, I waited in line to exit. The
guard noticed my wristband had no number left on it - must have been
washed off by the wet suit, the arm collers, and the sweat on the run.
..........
AS I was waiting, I saw Mitch on the other side of the fence. His hair
was washed and combed, and he was in clean shorts and a finishers'
shirt - he must have had a great time. Telling Cheryl, "I'm going to go
over and talk to Mitch," I leaned my bike on the outside fencing and
gave him a big smile.
"Hey, how'd you do," I asked.
"It's over," he said with a smile.
"You can't fool me, you're already changed and all cleaned up, you must
have had a great time."
"Well, I finished in 10:55."
"Oh wow, that's great. You're going to Hawaii for sure! Do you know
what place you were?"
"I think I got fifth." The top four in his age group would
automatically qualify for Hawaii. He'd have to wait for the roll down
to find out for sure.
"So are you going to the roll down? You never know - there's a really
good chance you'll get in, you know."
Mitch seemed a little resigned. He certainly didn't want to get his
hopes up.
Just then I saw Tom Herron, coming out with his bike. I asked him about
his finish. After trying to avoid any semblance of feeling good about
his result, he said "I finished in 11:16."
"What was your run? Did you break 4 hours?" As a sub-3:20
marathoner,
he possessed the perhaps unrelaistic belief that he outght to be able
to run the Ironman 26.2 in a "respectable" time.
"Ah, I was still over 4 hours." His only previous Ironman, the Grand
Columbian, had finished with a 4:07 run.
"That's great, Tom! You should feel really proud of that. What was your
place?"
"I didn't look. I'm still trying to find out how Verna" - his wife,
Verna was attempting this race 6 months after foot surgery - "and I
want to be there at the finishe line for her."
"Well, 11:16 - that might get you to Hawaii. I'd look up your place,
'cause you just might make it in the roll down. Are you going to go
tomorrow."
"Well, I don't know - we're staying in Spokane with Verna's sister, and
I don't know if we want to come back here again tomorrow. We really
want to get hom to our kids."
"Well, check your place. If you're 7th - and you may very well be
seventh with that time - you've got a good chance to get a roll down
spot."
Tom certainly didn't seem convinced, either that he might have finished
as high as 7th, or that he should go to the roll down. He did seem to
be convinced that his day was not so hot.
"Tom, I'm really impressed with your race. Wow. 11:16, great bike,
great
run ... you ought to feel so good about that. Certainly better than
I've ver done." Which was true - my personal best is 11:41, done when I
was 6 years older than Tom. "Well, if I were you, I would go to the
roll down - you never know." Tom looked sceptical.
..........
Back at the motel, while Cheryl does her shower, I open my laptop to
read the grim news of my placement. Fourth the last 3 Ironman races
I've done, I'm a little worried I'll lose my string on the podium.
Ironmanlive.com is up and running, and I move through the Athlete
Finder to check my results. I go for the Age Group view, rather than
looking at my individual page.
I'm stunned, almost catatonic by what I find. There, at the top of the
list of 55-59 male finishers, is my name. Not believeing, I check
carefully at all the finishing times, to make sure they are all slower
than mine. I drop downt he list of names; Evensen in 2rd, Nordquest in
4th - where's Joe Anderson? He's there in 5th, more than 1/2 an hour
behind me. What happened to HIM? I was only doing 11 minute miles from
the time I saw him to the finish - he would have had to averaged over
25 minutes a mile to come in that slow?
Confident I really am first, I open the bathroom door, and adopt as
deadpan an expression as possible as I tell Cheryl, "I'll give you $400
if you guess what place I finished." The $400 was a subtle clue to her
to guess 4th, as she assumed that's what I meant. True to form, she
tried 4th, then 5th, then gave up.
"Nope, I WON the damn thing. Unbelieveable. Jaw-dropping." In truth, it
felt better to get a Kona slot, but, it's hard to argue with winning.
The problem with my personality type is, when I win, I tend to start
setting higher goals, meaning harder work. Positive reinforcement is an
evil taskmaster. Oh well, as my mother used to say, "It'll look good on
your resume´."
..........
We meet up with Joan down by the finish
line. She's trying to connect with Pat, who spent some time in the med
tent. Thanks to the miracle of cell phone technology, we all gather
outside the transition zone, and review our races. Cheryl has cautioned
me not to blurt out my good fortune to Pat and Joan, as they are trying
to deal with his IV hydrated recuperation at the moment. That's easy to
do, because I know that one's placement is more dependent on the
performance of others.
By the time we get Pat's bike, and walk up the hill to where our cars
are parked, it's nearly 10 PM.
I blurt, "You know, last year Cheryl and I ate a pasta dinner right on
Sherman Avenue, while the late finishers were coming down the hill.
Then we went over to the finish line to cheer in the final half hour =
the last people tto come in. You've gotta see this - it's part of the
Whole Ironman Experience. Mike Reilly pumps up the crowd, the winners
sometimes parade down the chute while we wait for the stragglers, and
they throw stuff into the stands."
"Yeah, I'm feeling surprisingly good now that I got two litres of fluid
in the Med Tent. I think I ought to do that after every long race I do
- it really perks you up, " Pat allowed.
"It's a real tonic, just like a blood transfusion. So you're awake and
alert?"
Yes, I'm up for it, " Pat said enthusiastically. With that, Cheryl and
Joan could hardly argue. Among us, Pat had had the most trying day, and
if he was willing to press on, who were we to stand in his way. We
walked down 3rd Ave. The building next to us had been facing the sun
all afternoon. It's blank cinder blocks oozed back all that heat - they
were quite warm to the touch, and felt sauna-like a foot or two away.
It suddenly seemed very hot to me. I had forgotten the searing sun I'd
labored under all afternoon. The skin on the backs of my shoulders, the
place where the sun tan lotion never seems to work well enough, sizzled
and stung, prickling with the onset of a good second degree burn.
We cruised iunto Tito Macaroni's. They were, of course, doing a booming
business. Every five or ten minutes, another Sound Sound Tri guy came
by, and we traded war stories on the day. Most everyone felt good about
their finish, if not their time. Survival was the simple mark of
success at 10:30 on an Ironman day when the temperature was still above
80.
About 11:15, we started up from the table, and ambled through the
indoor mall to the street. It was lined with people, cheering an
alarming large number of finishers home. Every ten or fifteen seconds,
another one came down the chute. Some were beaming, some were
struggling, some refused to run, no matter how loud the imprecations.
But all looked proud. We crossed over to the other side, and went up
into the stands.
Still they came, more than a hundred in the last hour, way more than
I'd ever seen this late. There were so many, there was no time for the
Ironma crew to come onto the finishing carpet and throw stuff up at us
- or maybe they were just short on supplies this year.
At 11:59 (16:59 on the big finishing clock), Mike shouted , "Yeah,
baby, we've got another one coming in - I can see her up near 5th or
6th. Come on, folks, let's bring her in!" The crowd, which had been
cheering, whistling, and beating the barriers for the last 15 minutes,
went beserk. A slighly plump lady, with a severe hitch in her gait at
this point, was being pulled down that chute by the sheer force of the
crowd. As she entered the spotlights, we could see the growing grin and
tears on her face. This amped the crowd up even more. She moved as fast
as she could - which was fast walking speed, really, but she was truly
running. She was a first timer. Who knows what had conspired this day
to keep her out on the course for seventeen hours? But there she was,
going under the banner at 16:59:49 - certainly the latest finish I'd
ever seen. Talk about cutting it close! Much emotion is showered on the
family feeling of Ironman finishers, and the joy we all feel for
everyone who makes it, whether sub 8 hours, or barely within 17.
I'd thought it was a bit bogus before now.
I mean, really, what could I possibly have in common with these people
who swim slower than I can breaststoke kick, bike on the flats at the
speed I go uphill, and walk most of the marathon? Aren't they doing a
fundamentally different event then I am? I used to think so, but no
more. Everyone comes to the race at their own level - their life's
experience at athletics, their level of fitness from whatever training
they've been able to do, and their reaction to the day's viscissitudes.
We all succeed or fail on our terms, no one else's, and coming in under
17 hours, for the final finisher, is the crowning achievement of a very
intense episode on one's life, no less than my first place after ten
tries at this ultimately draining activity. I was as proud of her as I
was of Pat, as I was of myself.
..........
Finally, sleep. I dream of the podium,
and marvel at my prescience for bringing a Big Dog shirt, the one I've
always told myself I'd wear if I ever got a first place a big podium
race.
In the morning, Cheryl and I wander over to the Ironman village, to
check out the sign up for Kona. I've earned a slot, for once, but I
don't get to do the white tent thing with Marc Roy who signs everybody
up. Still, I want to see for myself that the
option actually is there.
"If your name is above the line, you automatically qualify for the
Ironman World Championship in Hawaii, October 14 2006." Then,
instructions on how to actually sign up. There's my name, up at the top
of the men's 55-59 age group listing. I'M ABOVE THE LINE. I feel
strangely fulfilled. Cheryl takes a picture with her snazzy
professional model Nikon digital, just to document the reality of it
all.
But I'm actually more interested in the age group below me. Finisher
number 3 has written next to his name "not going", ensuring that Mitch
gets a slot, and putting Tom Herron only two away from his own Kona
entry. Wow - three old guys from our little neck of the woods, all
qualify for Hawaii - what's the world coming to?
We amble over to the Resort, to meet Mitch and Pat and some
others for the awards banquet.
..........
I've attended a number of these things -
about 8 or 9 in all. At this point, my favorite parts are getting to
hear the winners' comments, and the awards ceremony, at which I've now
received four plaques.
This year, Coeur d'Alene is the USA national championship for women; no
pro men's awards. Joanna Zeiger has come in first. Her background is as
one of the few "all-around" triathletes left. In 2000, she was 4th at
the Olympics in Sydney, and 5th at the Ironman in Kona a month
later. At the time, she was completing her Ph.D. in Genetic
EPidemiology. After her ascendence in the millenial year, she suffered
numerous setbacks due to back and leg injuries, but in the past few
years, she has scored numerous half-ironman wins, ITU olympic distance
wins, and a 1st at Ironman Brazil. However, she hasn't finished at Kona
since '00. She's done a post-doctoral fellowship in cardiology at Johns
Hopkins as well.
While waiting for people outside the Resort, a short, wiry,
well-dressed cur rly-coiffed fit young lady comes whirling through the
revolving doors. Her hair is bright blond over dark eyebrows and pink
shades. Yup, this is Joanna. She looks MUCH better in person than she
does in photos, most of which show her in agonizing fits of
effort during a race, hair covered by a cap, and appearing about 5
inches taller than in real life - I'm always struck by how SMALL women
pro triathletes usually are. Anyway, this introduction is replicated
when she gets to have her five minutes at the microphone during the
banquet. This woman is all business, intense, no humor. She's got no
notes, but it's clear she has done her homework, and mentally outlined
what she wants to say - she would be hell if she were a professor.
Thanks her sponsers, the volunteers, expresses appreciation for the
course and how much energy we all showed out there on it. No stutters,
no vague ramblings or fear of the lecturn. Just like a high-powered
science jock! And no hugs and kisses for the other women up there, who
all seem vaguely discomfited by her presence. I guess we just can't
hide who we are.
..........
"Just once, I'd like to go to onbe
of these where they have the older age groups first - I mean, you
should be held up as role models for all the younger folks to admire
and strive for," Cheryl is saying, echoing what I've thought for
years. Not only do I usually have to wait 1/2 hor or more to get the
medal for whatever, but usually most people have left by the time a get
my award. I'd like a little more recognition for the grit it takes to
race past 55. Sigh!
"I know, I know. But at least everyone stays around for the whole
banquet at the Ironman," I reply.
Finally, M.C Mike Reilly starts the Clydesdale/Athena awards, and warns
those those 45 and over to start gathering to the right of the stage. I
give it about five minutes, then walk by Mitch and tell him to come
along with me. Once there, we self-select into age groups and order of
finish, from 5 thru 1. Funny how we all know our finish placement, evn
though they never posted any results! We're all so secretly competitive.
I start chatting with Even again, as he tell me more about his efforts
at recovery. Then Joe from Ogden comes up, and I say, "Hi".
Even before I get to ask him what happened after our encounter at mile
23, he launches into, "Boy, yesterday was just so hot. I don't know
what happened after I saw you. I got down the hill into the shade in
the neighborhood, and lay down on the lawn under the first tree I saw.
I must have stayed there for half an hour. I just coulnd't get going
again. I guess I was way behind my my fluids, 'cause I kept getting
dizzy every time I tried to get up. If I'd gotten more to drink out
there along the lake, I don't think I would have slowed down so much
...." He went on like this for an uncomftably long time, interupting
the casual little conversation I was having with Even. It was almost as
if, in his number 5 spot leading us up onto the stage, we was trying to
tell us he was tyhe real winner. After all, he had been leading the
race up until mile 23 of the marathon.
I was smiling and trying to console him when Even almost pulled me
aside, turing me back to my place at the other end of our little row.
As we walked, he said, "Don't listen to him. You won the race - it
doens't matter wehat he did or didn'[t do out there, you're the one who
figured out how to get to the finish line first. You do not have to
feel bad abour his effort or your success. Look at me - I've got pins
all over my legs, it hurts every time I take a step out there, but I
love to race so much, I still do it. And I'm just so damn glad to be
out racing again, and finishing. You shoujld feel very good about your
self today." He smiled, and dropped me off next to the number two
finisher.
Keith Greenough, of Burnham, England, was a little gnome with a bald
head, big small, standing about 3 inches shorter than me. No wonder he
ran 9 minutes faster! He had a big smile and twinkling eyes as I
introduced myself.
"You're happy with your day?" I asked.
"Oh, yeah! This is such a beautiful part of the world; we've never been
here before."
"Yeah, the people here jsut love having us - the crowd support is
great. Are you going to Hawaii?"
"Well, actually, I already qualified earlier in the UK, so this is just
a bonus. You?"
"Uh, I qualified last September, at Wisconsin."
His eyes widened at this news. "The heat didn't seem to bother you, now
did it. You must have had a lot of time to train for this."
"Well, actually, I;'ve only been training for 7 weeks - I started my
training for Hawaii in the second week of May, so I'm kind of suprised
by how I did today."
"Well, you did all right."
Our line edged leftwards as we moved through the 45-49s and on to the
50-54s. A staffer came by to make sure we were all the right age, and
in the right order.
I asked, "Are you following a specific training plan for Kona?"
He smiled even more broadly, and laughesd a bit as he said, "Oh, no,
I've just retired, and we've been going aorund the world doing Ironman
races. We just did New Zealand in March, and that's where I qualified.
I guess I'll just keep on with what I've been doing." He apparently
meant his wife, Glynis, who'd done the swim in 1.5 hours, and DNF'd,
finishing last in the women's 50-54.
We'd arrived at the stage steps. Volunteers were making sure each of us
was who we were suppsoed to be, that we got out plaque, and that we
knew when and where to go on the stage.
Finally, Mike gets to, "And winning the 55-59 year old age group, Al
Truscott of Gig Harbor Washington! Swimming 1:06.22, biking 6:02.33,
and running 4:38.42, Al went 11 hours and 56 minutes. Congratulations!"
I get to amble into the center stage, holding my giant plaque. I spy
Cheryl up front, and smile for her picture. I look out over the crowd,
beam, and hold the plaque high over my head. My Big Dog shirt feels
smooth and silky as it slithers over arms while air from the stage fan
baffles it against my back, cooling off the sweat from the already 90F
day. I bask for a second, and marvel at what it's taken me to get here.
In the end, I had to let go of any thoughts of racing, and just stay in
the moving forward moment. After the applause stops, we turn and
walk left, downt the steps and back to our friends and families.