"Hey, Pat! You found me!" Among 2270 wetsuit-clad triathletes, what are the odds I would see my closest friend among them at the water's edge just five minutes before the gun was due to go off? Probably quite good, as I'd also seen Richard, another compatriot from the South Sound Tri Club, coming out of the water just as I went in for my warm-up. An Ironman is really just a mobile small town, ratcheted into existence for 3 or 4 days every year.

"I thought I'd find you here," Pat grinned back at me through his goggles and his greying mustache. He kept smiling. "You wouldn't tell me where your secret starting spot was, but when I was out in the water, I looked back and saw this ... gap in the crowd right here."

'Right here' was about 20 yards from the far left edge of the start line, which extended several hundred meters to the right along the shoreline of Lake Couer d'Alene. I had brought Pat out here yesterday morning, for his orientation swim, and explained about the "tri-modal" appearance of the start: a bunch at the far left, on the direct buoy line to the first turn, 800 meters away - these would be the ones who thought they had a chance to go real fast, and wanted the shortest route to keep their time down; a bunch in the middle, those who wanted to get a good start, but didn't want to be in the melee along the buoy line; and a bunch at the far left, those who were simply afraid of being caught up in the chaos of a mass start in an Ironman Triathlon. The folks in bunches 2 and 3 were getting free of the turmoil, it seemed - their start would be cruel joke on them.

But Pat and I were starting in my secret spot, where few swimmers dared to go. Given the correct trajectory, our first 2-400 meters would be relatively calm, as long as we kept up a brisk pace. I'm sorry, but I won't get any more specific than this about my spot, as it's worked for me two years in a row, and I don't want it to get too crowded in the future.

"No helicopter", I shouted at Pat, who looked quizzically in the sky. "Usually at one of these things, they've got a helicopter overhead at this point, for pictures and TV shots. Makes me think I'm at a Really Big Race, when there's a helicopter at the start." What we got was the national anthem, a few quick breaths, and hand shake, and "Good Luck" to each other. Then the cannon boomed.

..........

An Ironman is a bit like a wedding: "something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue...". I've got a lot of old rituals to keep, and I'm always trying out something new. Often, one forgets things, and borrows from friends, and I don't know anyone who is perpetually upbeat about the whole affair - feeling down is part of the game.

Even though I've been at this game for 8 years now, the only thing "old" in my equipment stash is my bike and shoes: both entering their seventh season. Of course the bike now sports new aerobars and wheels, and a new drive train (chain rings, bottom bracket, cassette), but I think this is the old part of my equation. Much of my attire is "new": my red racing visor, sunglasses, tri top and shorts, runnings shoes and socks, biking "cooling" sleeves, and wet suit have each seen only 1-2 races before this Ironman. I'm using a coaching service ("borrowed" workouts?) for the first time in prep for Ironman Hawaii. And I'm still in my first year of my secret weapon, my Altipower hypoxicator, which uses blue soda lime crystals to suck out the carbon dioxide in its rebreathing apparatus.

An Ironman is different from other triathlons, not only because of the daunting distance, but also because it introduces two or three new disciplines, in addition to swim, bike, run, and transitions between them. Pacing, hydration, and nutrition are the keys to success on race day. Because every body's needs for these are different, and vary depending on weather and terrain, one can't always rely on experience to get them right on race day. Each Ironman is a learning opportunity, and the subtle balance among effort, drinking, and eating, so easy to understand and experiment with in shorter races, becomes an all-consuming obsession for the Ironman.

..........

Weather service predictions start to gain a little bit of accuracy about 6-12 days out. So the final two weeks before an Ironman, we all become weather seers, obsessing over the subtly changing forecasts as the day comes closer. By the weekend before, it became obvious that the unsettled, cooler weather regime of the previous 5 weeks would start to break down soon, and give way to a high pressure influence, raising temperatures above seasonal norms, and providing no cloud cover for our race. By Tuesday before, the back room discussion at the NWS confirmed that race day temps would be somewhere between 87 and 92 F, with the peak of the heat wave probably coming Sunday evening into Monday. This would also mean a morning wind in our faces as we pedaled back into town of the last 15 miles each loop of the bike leg. Those not prepared for this or understanding its effects on one's race plans would risk a serious blow up starting about mile 85 in the bike, which would put their marathon times at grave risk.

While I am no fan of heat for this race, I have learned to make my peace with it. Once again, as last year in Madison, I would be ready. I would not be one of those who pulled up short on the bike, or, worse let the heat conquer my concentration on the run. A whole series of obvious little tricks, systematically applied, would be my allies here. Water showers at every bike aid station. Strict attention to taking in about a quart of fluid every hour. Ice and sponges at every opportunity on the run. Little things like that were going to make a big difference on this day. Sun tan lotion in all the right places also helps. Lesson #1 from this Ironman: when you switch from a one piece to a two piece race outfit, your lower back might get exposed - suntan lotion is needed there, just as much as on the nose and neck and backs of the shoulders.

..........

The days before an Ironman flow by almost as an out of body experience. For most of us, we're in a vacation environment, yet unable to relax and enjoy ourselves. I remember at the start of my family's cross country bike trip, the night before feeling a sense that I was about to totally immerse myself into an unknown, hermetically sealed process, which would totally consume my every waking (and sleeping) hour. While this was a voluntary undertaking, trying to herd our 5-8 member group across 3400 miles on bikes with an RV in tow over two months seemed impossible to contemplate. Even one day at a time was hard to do. My sense of excitement and anticipation was  overpowering - both the process and the end point were going to that we solve as yet unknown problems, and that we pay attention to mundane details with a religious fervor. Simply procuring and devouring food required the logistics of an army. Add to that keeping the RV gassed, watered and sewered, making sure bike tires were pumped, rendezvous were arranged and met, heat was dealt with, a place to sleep at night was found and arranged - the list of tasks was endless and Sisyphean. I know now that we finished, but at the start, while I was sure our goal was doable, I knew that its accomplishment would require total attention to the exclusion of the outside world, such as reading newspapers, paying bills, and learning math.

An Ironman, while only one day, requires much the same narrowing of focus, with the added thrill of knowing that your body is going to get seriously abused to the point of collapse. And you don't really know how it will all come out.

So you turn to the only source of succor available - the other athletes. Knowing people who are actually racing, as opposed to friends/family who are on the other side of the looking glass, is a godsend. I've come to enjoy listening to all their tales of anxiety spiked confidence ahead of time, and their delicious, devious explanations of just how their day went, and how it did or didn't their expectations and goals. Everybody's got a story at the Ironman, and they all want to tell it.

So I tried asking people what their plan was.

Exaggerated cool: "I'm just going to see what the day brings, try to enjoy myself, think of it as just a long training day."

Obsessed with details: "What do you put in your special needs bag? I'm trying to figure out whether I need another 600 calories there, or if I can just go with the bananas and Gatorade for the whole bike ride. I don't really like Gu, I prefer PowerGel."

Worried about missing the One Secret: "I saw that new aero water bottle people put behind the seat. Do you think that's faster than a bottle between your aerobars?"

Angry at the world: "Why do they have us take our special needs bags all the way down THERE?"

Excessively Kona conscious: "Last year it took a 10:19 to qualify - with this heat the the higher numbers in the race, I think they'll be one or two more slots. I just missed the roll down by two last year."

And when they turned the question on me, here's what I had to say, (somewhat sheepishly): "Well, I've already qualified for Kona at Wisconsin last year, so really only started my serious training the third week in April. I'm only 7 weeks into my training program, and I'm just taking a one-week taper, so I'm going to experiment with some pacing and nutrition ideas for the heat." Translation: I have no idea what I'm going to do, I hope I can find the motivation to actually Race when the hammer comes down on the marathon.

..........

I look to my right, I look to my left, I still can't believe it's so UNCROWDED here in this little Secret Spot. I line up in the second row, and eyeball the folks in front of me and to my side, trying to figure out if any of them are "stupid starters", people who have no clue how fast they are going to swim relative to the field, and are way too far up front. I look behind me for the even worse species, those who don't realise how fast they really are, and are about to swim over me in the first 200 meters. There's hardly anyone back there, either!

The gun goes off, and I run into the water, dolphin dive behind the lead swimmers' feet, and take off. In keeping with the "less is more" philosophy I've adopted for this race, I have not checked the water temperature before the race. During warm-up, it felt down right perfect, maybe a touch above 65F. Just as I'm learning to value the warmer temperatures, I'm also learning to enjoy the colder water - the faster/harder you swim, as well as the better your wetsuit, the warmer you are going to get. Overheating can be a big problem on the swim, oddly enough. I have a few close encounters with ungainly swimmers, but I maintain my two strategies for dealing with conflict in the water: I keep my attitude cool ("don't take it personally"), and if I just can't live with my neighbor, I move. Also, if someone insists on swimming at my exact speed, I pull up, and tuck in behind for a quick draft for 50-100 meters, then motor ahead to a new pair of feet. Works every time.

At the first buoy, there's always some guy or gal who's been swimming blind, and doesn't realise we are TURNING here. I have to nudge them left, or they might keep going all the way down the lake and run into the seaplane about a half mile ahead. We swim into the sun for about 200 meters, which makes sighting VERY easy - you can actually do it with your eyes closed, the sun is that low and that bright.

I cruise onto the sand for the first loop, and sneak a glance at my watch as I cross the timing pad - 32:30 or so. WELL, that's odd - faster than I've ever done a half ironman or Olympic distance swim, much less the first loop of an IM. I start to sing praises to my coaches, who are having me do 20%  more swimming that I've ever done before. This one little fact sets the tone for my day, telling me I do have some racing speed in me, and I might as well move into full on Race Mode as far as mental attention is concerned - don't want to make any mistakes if I've got a good day in me here.

The second lap contains little to snare my attention. Just stretch out, slow down the stroke, and look for good feet to follow. I'm out in 1:06.15 - a new personal best for an ironman swim, and a faster pace than I've ever done an Olympic distance, too. I attribute most of that to the tremendous draft 500 people in front of me make; the water is moving forward in a bit of a current from all those bodies churning up a wake.

Remembering my IM Wisconsin experience, where an over-eager wet suit stripper ripped my shoulder strap, I talk the helpful volunteer through a slow motion yank off of my suit. Grab my T1 bag from the ground, and whip around into the change tent. I don't know it at the time, but I'm second out of the water by 5 seconds, and first out of T1 by over a minute. I'm leading the race on only 7 weeks of training, and a one-week taper.

..........

Previous years, I have motored through town and out to the lake shore drive. This time, I try to rein it in a notch, and stay totally, stupidly slow. Meaning I'm going about 20 mph, and passing more than I get passed. I keep checking out legs and race numbers, but don't see anyone in my age group in the first 15 mile loop along the lake. About 7 miles out, Mitch Hungate, whom I race against 2 out of 5 years (he's three years younger), roars by me. Mitch is a compact little guy, who can barely reach the handle bars from his saddle, so he's got a distinctive low flat posture on the bike. I yell his name as he goes by, hoping he's cruising well to a good day. It's all my fault he's here. Two years ago, after he did the Troika Half in 5:03, I told him he would do well in the Ironman, if he just committed to 12 weeks of focused training in the spring. He saw himself as basically a Sprint/Olympic distance dabbler, and didn't understand that he was speeding up while his peers were slowing down or dropping out.

"But Al, we like to do rock climbing - we're just getting into in the spring, when the snow is just exposing the lower walls." He and his wife are inveterate Northwest mountaineers, climbing, hiking, camping. More logger than lederhausen, though. "I don't even know how to train for it!"

"You did really well there in Spokane, Mitch. You've got a great chance to make it to Kona with your 1/2 IM time - you'd just need to commit to 15 hours a week for 2-3 months. You've got the swim speed, so you don't have to add any swimming to what you already do. All you really need to do is just throw in 3 or 4 long runs of 2-3 hours, and 3-4 bikes of 5-6 hours. Otherwise, just what you'd normally do when you start training in the spring. Coeur d'Alene still hasn't filled up yet - just go sign up on line this week!"

Damned if he didn't do it. And damned if he didn't finish 6th in his first IM in 2005, just missing a Kona slot in the 50-54 AG. Apparently he saw how close he was, and signed up again right away for this year. And here he was, passing me 7 miles into the bike.

"Hey, Mitch! Hungate!" I yelled as I saw him flow by. He looked around at me, but didn't seem to recognize either my voice, my bike, or my face. Just then I thought, "Wait a minute. He ALWAYS beats me in the swim. What's going on here?" Of course right after that I said, "He's FLYING by me on the bike - I must not be ready for this race." Then, the moment passed, and I went back to cruise control.

..........

Slipping around the hot corner, by the big crowds in town, it sounded kind of quiet. So I raised my left arm up a few times - it always works: I got a big wall of sound as I started up the gradual grade out of town. On up to the first hill, I ratcheted down my expectations, and resigned myself to getting passed by all the younger legs. But wait! There's a leg that says "58". His race bib says "Evensen".

"Even Evensen!" I hollered. "Good to see you back out here." I'd never met Even. Back when I did my first IM Canada, I researched previous years' finishers, and found his name among the Hawaii qualifiers. He was from Philomath, OR, a Portland suburb. Strictly a long distance guy, I never saw him in  regional 1/2 IMs nor Olympic distance, like I did other Portland racers. Then one day about 3 or 4 years ago, I saw a little news item on RaceCenter.com, which is based on Portland but covers the whole Northwest, that Even Evensen had been in a car/bike accident, suffering a broken pelvis and vertebrae. He was in traction for months, and his triathlon club was asking for donations to help him cover medical expenses. I sent him $50. I've got a strong spot of empathy for someone my age getting hit by a car out on the road; I've seen two of them die in races I've done. Maybe this was a way to keep the jinx off me.

Six months later, I'm watching TV in my library, and get a call from ... Even Evensen. Now that's a name you never forget, so I knew who he was. He was calling, he said, all the people who'd contributed, to thank them and give a progress update. He said he had pins in his back, and was going to get back on his feet, get riding again. "My goal is to do another Ironman". I could say little except express sympathy and encouragement.

Then last year, I saw him in the race list. I worried, as usual, about the effect on MY chances, given he was more than an hour faster than me in Canada. He did not finish; his swim and bike were each a minute slower than mine that year.

As he went by I yelled, "I sent you money when you were laid up."

He slowed up a bit (easy to do on the uphill slope), and asked "What's your name?" I told him and he said, "Al, I will be forever grateful to all the people who supported me then. I'm just so glad to be back here again."

"Well, you're looking good. Keep it up!"

"Thank you so much for your help, and for remembering me."

"Well, I thought at the time, 'You know, there but for the grace of God...'"

Even pushed on up the hill. One guy at least in front of me. I assume there's at least one other, maybe two, so I'm in 4th now, or worse I figure. And drop that thought, as it's not helpful in moving on.

..........

One other bike in my AG passes me up that hill, but I keep to my plans. No pressure, just live with the heat, and set up for the run. Keep hydrated, fed, and positive. Don't race other people, but find someone at a compatible speed to work with. Don't ever feel like you're working. These are the tasks at hand, and take all of my attention while biking.

On the second lap, Richard Ling from our South Sound Tri club goes by, again on the first hill. Odd, as Richard is usually out of the water ahead of me in shorter races. He sees me first, and hollers, "Hey Al, you're looking good."

I think about asking about his swim. Knowing he's really intent on success in this race, I keep the thought to myself. Instead, "How's it going, Richard? You're looking good up the hill." He should - he's about 3 inches and 20 pounds smaller than me, and can blast a sprint tri bike about two minutes faster than me.

"I'm doing OK, just sticking with the plan," he says as he flies by. It's baffling, but there he is, much farther back than he should be.

Soon after, Tom Herron motors on past me, saying hi. Tom is another guy I've corralled into this race. He's an awesome runner, going 3:21 this year at Boston as a 50 y/o. For two years I've been trying to get him here, and finally he registered last September, just a week before entries closed. He's got Kona speed in him, if he'd just believe in it. The bigger story, though, is his wife, who trains and races with him. She underwent foot surgery in January, and is back in the race now, doing her first ever Ironman (Tom did the Grand Columbian two years ago, finishing in a lonely 12 hours.)

"Go, Tom! Keep it up - you're gonna break 11:30 easy the way you're going." Tom and Richard are also doctors, so they will tend to finish what they start.

..........

It's usually about this time I start finding my own little peloton - sometimes we're as small as two. Either I pick someone going just a teeny bit faster than me up a gentle slope, or (more often) I find myself gradually leapfrogging with another rider. Most often it's either a woman, 35-50, or a guy 25-30. This year it's a lad named "Kubiak", who seems to be the only one who can hang with me as I step up the intensity out of the hills onto the Appleway flats. When we hit the Centennial bike path, I know I can get a little closer, as there is zero chance a motorcycle referee is going to follow us along here - no room. Then the dog track, where I often drop people, but he's still hanging with me into Post Falls, and onto Pole Line road. Up the last hill to the aid station, and I wish him well as he goes by - "Enjoy the downhill tail wind up ahead", and he says back "I'm sure I'll see you again."

And I do catch him, just at the bottom of Huetter Rd, and we cruise on in the last six miles along Seltice and Northwest Boulevard. I intentionally slow down the last two miles, and he floats on by one last time.

"Thanks for the company" I say, when what I really mean is "Glad to have someone to push me just ever so slightly, and to pull for me with just that little Ironman Draft!"

..........

In T2, I'm feeling fairly good. I've been paying close attention to dousing myself with water fully at each aid station, taking in all my Hammer Gel and Perpetuum, dropping all my Race Caps and salt tabs, and topping up on Gatorade and water. I blast though my very favorite part of an Ironman, the moment when I take my contacts out of my eyes, and throw them away. As I turn out of the tent towards the run start mats, I see Even Evensen off to the left, getting his shoulders slathered with white sunblock lotion.

"Hey, Even, you still feeling good?"

"Al Truscott, is that you? I'm just so glad to be out here."

"Well, see you down the road." And I'm out the door. A half a mile later he comes by me, and asks, "Are you a runner, Al?"

Now, I've certainly never THOUGHT of myself as a runner, but, I decide to tell him the truth. The Whole Truth.

"I never ran a step until I was fifty."

"Well, you look pretty good for starting so late."

"My best stand alone marathon is 3:25, and I finished Boston just this past April." Now, why am I telling him this? Do I really think I can have any effect on his performance if he knows my speed. I don't know, maybe if he thinks he's faster than me, he'll blow himself up; and if he thinks he's slower, he won't try to catch me.

"I'm just doing the best I can; I've got all these pins in my back, and it makes me kind of stiff anymore when I start to open up." He has caught up to me, and we're arriving at an aid station, which he runs through, and I walk, as per plan.

But then at the next aid station, he's slowed up, and I catch him again. While walking, then starting up the Ironman Shuffle, I get to telling him, "You know, Even, you don't have to worry about me; I've already got a Kona slot from Wisconsin. Really, to be honest, I'm here on only 7 weeks of training." Now I'm really trying to psych him out? Or just being open, honest and friendly.

He asks if I've seen other people in our age group. I told him I was passed by one or two others on the bike. And that Richard Nordquest is usually somewhere along here, slightly ahead of me.

"Yeah, I think we're about 4th or 5th." I start to pull away from him for good - his stiff legged gait has one speed it seems, while I'm still in my warm-up mode. "Well, good luck, Al."

"You too, Even."

..........

Richard Nordquest has gone to Kona something like 18 times. Five years ago, at my second Ironman, he was on the podium, having gone about 10:35, and qualifying, while I did my personal best of 11:43, and was wondering how I would ever be as fast as those guys up there. Then, the last two years here at Coeur d'Alene, I passed him on the run somewhere in the first mile or two, after he would bike by me somewhere on the second lap.

I came up to him at mile 3 or 4. As I went by, I said, "Well, it took me a little longer to catch you this year." He smiles as I float by, wondering I guess, just who I am.

Then, through the neighborhoods, running in the 92F heat, pouting water on my head, ice down my shorts, sponges under by top, Gatorade and race and salt caps down my throat. Trying to stay in the race. Splitting 9:30 pretty steady to the Turnaround Hill (which I walked up).

On the way down, I saw Even and Richard walking up together - we all smiled and waved, and they wished me well. Now THAT'S a big boost - I get the feeling they think they have no chance to catch me.

Back into the neighborhoods, seeing Cheryl at the turn in. I smile, give her a hug and kiss, and tell her what I've said each time I've seen her, "I'm feeling good, feeling OK today" Meaning, I'm feeling like this is a race, even though it's really supposed to be a Training Day.

But then about mile 10-11, as usual, I start to slow down. Not because I run any slower, but because I walk a bit more. Then, when I hit the shade at the start of the second lap, I really walk. A lot more. Almost 50/50 walk/run until the special needs. Then I completely stop in the shade, to change my socks and put on a new wrist band. The others are soaked.

I think, "Well, I guess this is it. I suppose not racing anymore." The decision feels good, feels right. After all, the Big Plan is Hawaii this year. I do NOT want to disrupt my ability to start big time training again within 2 weeks, so I don't want to destroy myself with an all out race for no reason (I've already got a Kona slot, after all). I do have to start running again, as I'm going along the big crowds lining the Lake, and through downtown.

..........

As I take the Sherman Ave uphill, I pass a 30-something guy in a white tank top with "Chipchase" on the back. It must be an Army shirt, as people he pass on the sidewalks call out "Go Army!" At this point, he's walking, I'm running.

As I go by, I hear, "Hey, Al, you're looking good. Keep it up."

I figure her must be one of the Tri Club Fort Lewis guys, the ones I ride with whose names I don't know most of. I smile and wave, which is about all I can do at this point. I don't know it now, but this guy is my running peloton. He jogs up past me a few minutes later, and says a small encouraging something, and off we go. We pass each other, the runner going by the walker, like this for the next 8 miles, telling each other to "Stay in the race"; "There you are again"; "We can do this." Some of it penetrates my brain, but, really, all I'm trying to do is just cruise as best I can on autopilot. Try not to overheat, try not to go any slower than I have to.

If you're paying attention, you'll see people you know all over the place on this run - basically, it's four out and backs, so the opportunities are legion. I see Richard all four times; each time he's running and (thank God) so am I. I see Guy LeMire 4 times - he's walking, I'm running. But he's smiling, so he hasn't quit yet.

At the next turn onto Lake Shore, I hand Cheryl my wet wrist band.

"Oh, this is what I'm good for? You give me this rancid smelly thing?"

"That's what love's all about, you know." I stop and give her a hug. "I've shut down my race. I'm still feeling good, and I want to stay that way, don't want to burn up for Hawaii. It's OK, I haven't quit, I've just shut down the race."

She looks like she understands, but, frankly I don't see how she could. I have no idea myself what I'm saying at this point.

..........

The sun is relentless, cruel. I'm starting to feel a searing burn on my shoulders. I should have stopped with Even in T2 to get some lotion. I see a lady in the aid station with some, and know I should stop. But why make this go on any longer than it has to. Just keep going. It's only skin - I can grow some new.

Chipchase and I are still in touch, bungeeing back and forth, keeping each other in the race, whether we want to be there or not. Up the final hill, about mile 23, Ford has set up an "Inspiration Station", consisting of a misting tent, a pad reading our timing chips, and a signboard which prints out each of our names as we go by, with a little canned inspirational blurb like, "Congratulation, Al Truscott of Gig Harbor, WA. You're looking good."

I'm not inspired, just exhausted. An aid station looms, so I start to walk. As I do, a guy runs by with "56" on his calf. I inwardly groan, realising the hidden competitor within me will probably want to stay with this guy. Some other protective part of my brain won't let me kick into gear; while the two forces are batting the idea - "Keep walking? Start running?" - the guy inexplicably stops two steps in front of me.

For some bizarre reason, I introduce myself, "Hi, I'm Al" I say, bending slightly to look at the number/name bib around the front of his waist.

"Joe" is all he can say.

"You're looking good, Joe", I mumble. He says nothing. His eyes are blanks.

"Joe Anderson of Ogden Utah, You're looking good" the blinking lights of the Inspiration Station spell out. I walk thru the aid station, and on up to the top of the last real hill.

Down the other side, I veer off into the grass, and run in the shade along the ditch there by the side of the road. At the bottom of the hill, I know I'll see Cheryl one last time. I haven't seen Chipchase since I met Joe. I look up at the road, where the other runners are going both directions, some on the first lap, some on the second. I vaguely scan for Joe, not knowing what I'll do if I see him. I feel like a spectator. I'm feeling better, though, going down hill and in the shade. I vow to run every time there's shade, and only walk along the little bike path by the cemetery.

Cheryl goes by in a blur. The last three miles go by in a bit of a blur. No Joe in sight. With 1.2 miles to go, a little breeze kicks up off the lake, and I swear the temperature drops 5 degrees right there - all the way down to 87! I find the energy to keep running up the little rise out of the neighborhoods, onto Sherman Avenue and it's all downhill from here into the finishing chute.

..........

I start to line up my finishing posture. Let's see, no one in front for about 75 meters, and she's going my speed - I won't catch her, so I've got a clear path for the photo.

But then I hear heavy breathing off my left shoulder. I sneak a glance there, and see a blond head bobbing. Joe had blond hair - maybe it's him! Whoever it is, they are trying to ruin my finisher shot, so I turn on the jets - I always save a little for just this reason. I pull away from the heavy breather, into the roar of the crowd. Mike Reilly's got plenty of time to get my name straight. As he clears his throat for another "You are an IRONMAN!" shout, I hold up both hands with four fingers each, signifying either my eighth Ironman finish or my fourth time here at Coeur d'Alene"

"And here comes Al Truscott, from Gig Harbor WASHINGTON, in his fourth Ironman here at Coeur d'Alene". I fall into the arms of the catchers, grateful for once they are here. Get my medal and Tee shirt and bag and hat, and magically Cheryl walks up to me, saying "You look pretty good, Ironman."

..........

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.