Ironman Canada 2006
There are six Ironman competitions in North America every year, and the closest one to Seattle is in Penticton, British Columbia. My friend Robin has participated in 2 of them in the past few years and has developed quite a network of friends related to this elite event. After I expressed a passing interest in the race, he volunteered to shepherd me to Penticton and guide me through the wonderful experience of observing, first hand, the festivities and people of Ironman Canada 2006.
The race was scheduled to occur on Sunday, August 27th so Robin and I drove up on Friday after work with the intention of finding a campsite in or near Penticton. We left Seattle around 4:30 and got stuck in horrible traffic heading north through Everett and didn't get to Bellingham until about 7:15, where we stopped at Fred Meyer and bought a huge six-man Coleman tent (Robin had decided he needed a big tent for family camping). We crossed the border at Sumas and stopped at a Burger King in Abbotsford for a veggie burger, then cruised East on Route 1 towards Hope, B.C., then north on 5 towards Kamloops. We cut south on 97 and drove along 97 and nearly ran out of gas, but were fortunate to find an open gas station in the little town of Summerland.
We got to Penticton around 12:30 AM and assumed all our friends were asleep, so we headed south of town to the area where all the campsites were, near the north shore of Lake Skaha. Eventually we found a campsite which didn't have a locked gate and we quietly scooted in and spent 45 minutes setting up an unfamiliar tent in the dark while trying not to wake up the other campers. The campsite was called "Happy Hour" and it looked a little sketchy -- with scary looking trailers and rusted out vehicles, but we were exhausted and just wanted to sleep.
Our alarm went off at 6 AM and we headed to Rotary Park on Lake Okanagan where the next day's race was going to start. My friend Lesley, a first time Ironman participant, was going to be deciding which goggles to wear for her swim so Robin opted to join her for the morning workout. I sat on the beach and nursed my latte while observing the gorgeous scenery of the upper Okanagan Valley, with the morning light on the hills surrounding the calm lake water. I also took note of the several dozen swimmers on the beach at 7 o'clock in the morning, trying out wetsuits and goggles and swim caps and generally making last minute preparations for the next day. There was quite a collegial atmosphere, sort of like the first day of school when everyone gets back together and sees old friends and everyone's full of smiles and pats on the back. This atmosphere was also infused with a palpable nervous energy as race participants realized they were on the 24 hour countdown to the start. I felt sort of left out and wished, briefly, that I was participating in the race -- but then I remembered that Ironman consists of the following: a 2.4 mile swim, followed by a 112 mile bike ride through the hills, followed by a 26.2 mile footrace to the end (in 95 degree heat). So the feeling passed quickly and I reminded myself I was here to observe and support -- and reconnoiter for possible future participation myself. Mine was a fact-finding mission only.
After the swim, Robin and I had breakfast at a Travelodge restaurant where several local Canadians mistook us both for competitors at Ironman ("Good luck tomorrow, eh!"). I felt oddly flattered to be mistaken for an Ironman athlete, but humbled by the thought that the image of me splashing frantically in the water or crashing a bicycle on street corner would quickly dispel the illusion for my kind Canadian admirers. I laughed out loud when the waitress said to us, as we both ordered a simple breakfast of bacon and eggs, "What? No carbs? You need carbs!" I ordered some toast to appease her concern for my energy needs, but confessed I was in town to watch, not participate. Our star power at the Travelodge immediately faded.
After breakfast Robin took me to the Lakeshore Condo where most of his friends were staying. They were all still asleep when we arrived, with the exception of Janet (Dean's lovely and talented mother) who is the ultimate "Team Mom", having come to Ironman Canada several times over the years to tend to the needs of her adult son and his entourage of athlete friends. She graciously offered us breakfast and coffee and was generally one of the nicest human beings I have ever met, which explains a lot about her son Dean whom I met a few minutes later.
Dean is a good-looking successful Miami lawyer who greeted me, a complete stranger, with a warm handshake and a comment that we should have stayed at his condo the night before, rather than set up a tent in the middle of the night. This statement felt genuinely authentic, and was not the standard perfunctory sort of fake hospitality that a lot of people verbalize. Dean's fiancée Logan (looking very much like a leggy supermodel) emerged a couple minutes later and also warmly greeted me. They felt like family to me, instantly.
I met a few others of the Miami entourage, including Jeremy -- who, like myself, was at Ironman Canada on a recon mission. "...I might do Ironman in '08..," he told me. And I soon adopted that phrase as my automatic reply to the incessant question I faced over the next 36 hours: "Are you here to sign up for next year's Ironman??" I also met Jose Valenzuela, an old friend of Robin's who approached Ironman preparation with the level of calm detachment that I might approach my laundry. I watched him reach into a bag and pull out a cycling jersey printed with a large "Wonder Bread" and colored circles. He looked at us and said "What do you think? Should I wear this tomorrow? I guess I'll cut the price tag off now and throw it in my Transition bag..." He looked like the sort of guy who might also throw a six pack of his favorite beer into his Transition bag. Jose was accompanied by his very cool girlfriend Gen.
Eventually Robin and I made our way up Main Street in Penticton, and tracked down a group of women he knew whose husbands were participating in Ironman. They were hanging out at a coffee shop called "Fibonacci's Cafe". I thought it was rather funny when the woman at the cash register said "...can I take your ORDER..." I wanted to tell her I'd rather she take my sequence. Robin told me I was a nerd for thinking that was funny, but really I think he was just jealous he didn't think of it first. He's way more of a nerd than I am.
After drinking horrible coffee at Fibonacci's, we drove back towards Lake Skaha to see if we could find a better campsite. We soon located the "Lake Skaha Tent & Trailer Park", which was a more upscale, clean, amenities-laden campsite. The proprietor was a woman named Maria who, being the good, friendly Canadian that she was, assumed that we were Ironman athletes and asked us if we were ready for the race. Robin told her he had done the race before but was just a spectator this year. She said "Your name's Sherwood? I remember you. Yeah. You've been in this race before." Ummmm. I highly doubt she remembers all the athletes. Very odd woman. But we gave her money and went to retrieve our tent and brought it back over to the new campsite, after stopping for beer, ice, and a bottle of Jack Daniels. The tent only took us 7 minutes to set up this time.
That afternoon, we took Robin's bicycles out for a short ride along the course. When we returned to the condo, we watched Dean and the rest of the gang devour their "last meal" as if they were on death row, wildly downing every last gram of pasta and anything else they could stomach. I asked if they seriously intended on not eating again before the race at 7 AM the next morning, and Logan told me she simply didn't want anything in her stomach because her body would certainly not digest it anyway -- since all her blood would be diverted to her muscles. Why leave anything in the stomach? Robin and I then walked to a nearby restaurant called Salty's to engage in our own sympathetic pre-race carbohydrate loading session (i.e. beer drinking). We sat down next to a guy who was wearing a shirt with the the logo of the company called "Nuun" printed on it. Robin, being an avid consumer of Nuun products, excitedly asked him if he worked at Nuun. The man introduced himself as Tim, the owner of Nuun. "I guess you sort of work there, then?" said Robin.
We left Salty's around 9 PM with the intention of playing around downtown some more, but we were both exhausted from lack of sleep so we headed to the campsite instead and planted ourselves in campchairs. 2 or 3 hours later, we noticed the bottle of Jack Daniels had mysteriously emptied itself into our mouths, and I realized that might be th explanation for my raging headache and nausea. Oops. Rookie. Yeah, I was no Ironman.
Next day, we bolted out of our sleeping bags at 4:30 to head down to the beach so we could witness the start of the race. Again, the Penticton morning was absolutely gorgeous, the air was still, and the sunshine lit up the surrounding hills in a spectacular fashion. We mingled on the beach with our athlete friends. 2,335 of them, to be exact.
It was quite a sight! Pink and blue swimcaps, black wetsuits, a mass of general uniformity that made me sort of uncomfortable in the way I get uncomfortable at seeing a group of prisoners gathered together in chains, wearing the same drab outfits. For some odd reason, I was reminded of concentration camp prisoners in a Holocaust movie. I'm not sure why that particular analogy came to mind at the time. Maybe it's because they were all being herded towards the same scary start line -- a line that led to the unknown.
There was fear in the air, but the predominant vibe was excited anticipation, hope, camaraderie, even love. There was lots of back-patting, high-fiving, and thumbs-up. 2,335 nervous athletes were poised to embark on a hellacious day, which for some would be an 8 or 9 hour ordeal and for others a 13 to 17 hour ordeal. The palpable energy in the air was invigorating and the collective audacity of the moment truly struck me as a vivid testament to the peculiarity of human beings.
The first cannon boomed at 6:45 and thus launched the small group of truly insane individuals who are PROFESSIONAL triathletes. The pros get a head start (so they can't cheat by drafting off "Age Groupers" who happen to be excellent swimmers, according to Robin, who happens to be an excellent swimmer). Their departure elevated the remaining athletes' sense of imminence, and soon the cannon boomed again and the water immediately became a churning mass of arms and legs and pink and blue and black. It was quite a remarkable sight which I will not soon forget.
"And so it begins..." I said out loud to myself, while picturing Theoden of Rohan at the beginning of the battle at Helm's Deep in Tolkien's "Return of the King". Did I mention I was a nerd?
A 17 hour race doesn't really generate a sense of urgency on the part of the spectators -- one might think. But this is Ironman!!! Most of us spectators rushed to the finish line on the beach, poising ourselves for action shots of our friends and loved ones destined to appear an hour or so later. I knew it would be awhile before any athletes showed up; the triangular 2.4 mile course was so long that I could not make out the swimmers on the far leg of the triangle. I lost my prime spot near the finish line because I had to go to the bathroom then make a stop at the coffee stand in an attempt to mitigate the effects of the mysteriously empty bottle of Jack Daniels from the night before. I relocated to the area where the cyclists emerge after stripping off their wetsuits and donning biker gear and begin their 112 mile ride. About 8:20, I saw Lesley tap-tap-tap out on the pavement with her bicycle and start her day in the saddle. I observed that she was ahead of schedule, and hoped that meant she had a clean swim and hadn't over-taxed her energy systems already.
Robin and I returned to the condo and retrieved Gen and the three of us drove out backwards along the bike course so we could intercept the riders and shout our encouragement to our friends. We found a Subway sandwich shop in a little town called Keremeos (which I have no idea how to pronounce, and for some reason that fact really annoys me). Robin drove us to about mile 55 of the bike course and we parked on the side of the road, near the top of a long hill, so that the bikers would be going slowly when they passed us and we could take good pictures.
We provided aural stimulation (say THAT out loud) to the bikers in the form of Robin's iPod loudly blasting from the car speakers while we stood outside the parked car and ate our yummy sandwiches in full view of the exhausted athletes struggling by us. The music was a nice touch, though. I witnessed athletes visibly perked by Robin's collection of hip-hop, trip-hop, hick-hop and pop-rock. It was pretty cool.
The temperature was probably mid to upper 80's by this point so I think they were suffering. We saw Ben, Ian, Logan, Cindy, Dean, then Lesley... then Jose in his fantastic Wonder Bread cycle jersey. Jose flashed us a hang-loose and shouted "Shake and bake, baby!" I have no idea what he was talking about. Gen giggled. So did I, but I'm not sure why. I think it was the damn Wonder Bread jersey.
After our friends all passed, we sped up the road to another stopping point a few miles away and waited again, this time at a roadside fruit stand where young girls brought around trays of free fruit slices, including watermelon and something melon-like called "Yellow Baby", a term whose frequent repetition provided no unending amount of amusement to Robin, Gen and me. We waited for quite awhile and started to worry about our friends who seemed later than they should have been; it turned out later that Dean had suffered a flat tire, Logan was experiencing some digestive issues, and Cindy was having mechanical problems with one of her shifters. Eventually we saw everyone we cared about, then headed back towards Penticton via backroads so as to avoid the traffic jam of spectators. We drove along Route 3A and it was a fantastically gorgeous road that I'd like to return to on my motorcycle one day.
The condo on Lakeshore drive overlooked the first mile of the run course. Because of the way the course was set up, that stretch of road was also the last mile of the run course. So we plopped ourselves down with a beer and cheered our buddies on from the balcony. I soon realized that Lesley had already passed by (that, or she had crashed and was WAY back there somewhere) because soon we saw Dean (visibly limping), then Jose ("Shake and bake, baby!").
An hour or so later, we became aware that the first pro racer was nearing the end of the Ironman course! We excitedly watched a short Canadian named Jasper Blake sprint up the street at about a 6'20" pace, make the turn near the condo, and sprint back to the finish line. He finished the course in 8 hours, 18 minutes and change. He ran a 2 hour, 48 minute marathon -- AFTER riding a bicycle for 112 miles, AFTER swimming 2.4 miles. Wow. And he barely looked winded. What a display of human courage and tenacity.
As I get older, the sports heroes of my youth (Michael Jordan, Joe Montana, Ken Griffey Jr.) fade in remarkability as I witness the phenomenal achievements of true athletes like this Canadian and his 2,334 friends. Being able to throw a fastball 100 mph or slam-dunking a basketball is pretty cool, but finishing an Ironman is WAY cooler.
We knew we were at least a couple hours away from seeing our mere mortal friends run by in their sprint to the finish, so a nap seemed in order. Or in sequence. In either case, we took one.
Around 5 o'clock I walked up the run course backwards to try to intercept Lesley who was likely to be passing by some time around 6 PM. At the corner of Martin Street and Lakeshore drive, I ran into some of her family members who appeared visibly agitated within their own sense of anticipation of her fate. Was she OK? Was she hurting? Was she close? Had she bonked? We didn't know; we couldn't know. She may as well have been on the dark side of the moon, completely cut off from Mission Control.
Several minutes later, after a quick stop at Starbucks for a mocha Frapuccino, I intercepted Lesley running down Main Street about a mile from the finish line. She was alive! And looked well! She was running along at about a 9 minute pace which was great for me because I've never been able to keep up with her on a training run; so I seized this opportunity and jogged with her for about 3 blocks. Secretly, up close I observed she looked quite exhausted and pained in a way I'd never seen her look before. So of course I said to her "Hey, you look great and you're kicking ass. Stay strong!"
Her reply: "Be careful. I might throw up on you."
OK, then. After my 3 block stint, I ditched back to the sidewalk after hearing a spectator cynically shout in my direction "Pacer!" I joined Tony and Lesley's other friends and family in the stands at the finish line and awaited her imminent arrival.
She was in a full-on sprint for the last 200 yards of the race. She flashed us all a huge smile, then crossed the finish line triumphantly at 11 hours, 5 minutes and 37 seconds, with her arms raised in joyous exultation.
I believe we were all moved by the moment.
Tony and I sprinted around to the backside of the exit area to check on her and we witnessed her collapse into the arms of 2 volunteer "Catchers" who quickly escorted her to the official photo spot, then gingerly guided her towards the medical tent -- where we all greeted her and shouted our congratulations. She could barely stand but she could sure smile.
I hung out in the finish area for a couple hours, chatting with Tony and other friends (old and new). Eventually, Lesley emerged from the medical tent looking much better and declined our plentiful offers of food and drink, but she expressed urgent interest in an ice bath.
I hoofed it back towards the condo on Lakeshore and as I passed the finish line I overheard the announcer say "...Logan Swanson, of Sammm--ummm--mmm---ammm-amish, Washington..." What? It was 8:13 PM and these guys were just crossing the finish line? These were some of the most incredible athletes I've ever met. What the heck happened? I glanced over and in the yellow glow of the floodlights I saw Logan, Dean and Steve -- holding hands, grinning, laughing, holding each other in solidarity at the conclusion of what turned out to be a pretty horrific day. All three had bonked in one way or another, and had basically walked the marathon. I thought to myself "Wow, they must be disappointed." But what I observed was quite amazing: I saw a real display of love and camaraderie, even teamwork in a sport designed explicitly for the individual. I saw a glow of satisfaction and collaborative love in the face of the expectation of disappointment.
I saw what makes Ironman great: not the 6'20" miler who finished the race in 8 hours; not the 35 year old 1st-timer who took 4th in her age group and qualified for the Ironman Championships in Kona, not the 75 year old nun who crossed the line within minutes of the midnight cutoff, not the $7 million worth of bicycles grouped at Transition Area 1, not the $2 million worth of wetsuits laying in a pile on the beach, not the $14 million dollars in revenue realized by the town of Pentiction that weekend, not any of the heroic efforts of overachieving, obsessive-compulsive adults...
What I saw was genuine love and it moved me. I saw a beautiful woman holding the hand of her limping fiancée and the hand of her British friend, after they cartwheeled over the finish line. I saw smiles in the midst of blood, sweat, tears and vomit (literally). I saw a group of human beings who reminded me why I'm glad I'm not a monkey or a butterfly. We humans have the capacity for utter solidarity in the face of absolute anguish and demoralizing peril -- and suddenly I realized why the concentration camp analogy occurred to me 13 hours earlier while watching these same people launch themselves voluntarily into what would prove to be one of the most painful days of their lives. They were together, and it is this, above all, which makes humanity great. We care about each other.
I will always remember that beautiful vision of Robin's friends at the finish line of Ironman Canada '06.
I thank them for the image, and for the reminder of what makes our species special.
There are six Ironman competitions in North America every year, and the closest one to Seattle is in Penticton, British Columbia. My friend Robin has participated in 2 of them in the past few years and has developed quite a network of friends related to this elite event. After I expressed a passing interest in the race, he volunteered to shepherd me to Penticton and guide me through the wonderful experience of observing, first hand, the festivities and people of Ironman Canada 2006.
The race was scheduled to occur on Sunday, August 27th so Robin and I drove up on Friday after work with the intention of finding a campsite in or near Penticton. We left Seattle around 4:30 and got stuck in horrible traffic heading north through Everett and didn't get to Bellingham until about 7:15, where we stopped at Fred Meyer and bought a huge six-man Coleman tent (Robin had decided he needed a big tent for family camping). We crossed the border at Sumas and stopped at a Burger King in Abbotsford for a veggie burger, then cruised East on Route 1 towards Hope, B.C., then north on 5 towards Kamloops. We cut south on 97 and drove along 97 and nearly ran out of gas, but were fortunate to find an open gas station in the little town of Summerland.
We got to Penticton around 12:30 AM and assumed all our friends were asleep, so we headed south of town to the area where all the campsites were, near the north shore of Lake Skaha. Eventually we found a campsite which didn't have a locked gate and we quietly scooted in and spent 45 minutes setting up an unfamiliar tent in the dark while trying not to wake up the other campers. The campsite was called "Happy Hour" and it looked a little sketchy -- with scary looking trailers and rusted out vehicles, but we were exhausted and just wanted to sleep.
Our alarm went off at 6 AM and we headed to Rotary Park on Lake Okanagan where the next day's race was going to start. My friend Lesley, a first time Ironman participant, was going to be deciding which goggles to wear for her swim so Robin opted to join her for the morning workout. I sat on the beach and nursed my latte while observing the gorgeous scenery of the upper Okanagan Valley, with the morning light on the hills surrounding the calm lake water. I also took note of the several dozen swimmers on the beach at 7 o'clock in the morning, trying out wetsuits and goggles and swim caps and generally making last minute preparations for the next day. There was quite a collegial atmosphere, sort of like the first day of school when everyone gets back together and sees old friends and everyone's full of smiles and pats on the back. This atmosphere was also infused with a palpable nervous energy as race participants realized they were on the 24 hour countdown to the start. I felt sort of left out and wished, briefly, that I was participating in the race -- but then I remembered that Ironman consists of the following: a 2.4 mile swim, followed by a 112 mile bike ride through the hills, followed by a 26.2 mile footrace to the end (in 95 degree heat). So the feeling passed quickly and I reminded myself I was here to observe and support -- and reconnoiter for possible future participation myself. Mine was a fact-finding mission only.
After the swim, Robin and I had breakfast at a Travelodge restaurant where several local Canadians mistook us both for competitors at Ironman ("Good luck tomorrow, eh!"). I felt oddly flattered to be mistaken for an Ironman athlete, but humbled by the thought that the image of me splashing frantically in the water or crashing a bicycle on street corner would quickly dispel the illusion for my kind Canadian admirers. I laughed out loud when the waitress said to us, as we both ordered a simple breakfast of bacon and eggs, "What? No carbs? You need carbs!" I ordered some toast to appease her concern for my energy needs, but confessed I was in town to watch, not participate. Our star power at the Travelodge immediately faded.
After breakfast Robin took me to the Lakeshore Condo where most of his friends were staying. They were all still asleep when we arrived, with the exception of Janet (Dean's lovely and talented mother) who is the ultimate "Team Mom", having come to Ironman Canada several times over the years to tend to the needs of her adult son and his entourage of athlete friends. She graciously offered us breakfast and coffee and was generally one of the nicest human beings I have ever met, which explains a lot about her son Dean whom I met a few minutes later.
Dean is a good-looking successful Miami lawyer who greeted me, a complete stranger, with a warm handshake and a comment that we should have stayed at his condo the night before, rather than set up a tent in the middle of the night. This statement felt genuinely authentic, and was not the standard perfunctory sort of fake hospitality that a lot of people verbalize. Dean's fiancée Logan (looking very much like a leggy supermodel) emerged a couple minutes later and also warmly greeted me. They felt like family to me, instantly.
I met a few others of the Miami entourage, including Jeremy -- who, like myself, was at Ironman Canada on a recon mission. "...I might do Ironman in '08..," he told me. And I soon adopted that phrase as my automatic reply to the incessant question I faced over the next 36 hours: "Are you here to sign up for next year's Ironman??" I also met Jose Valenzuela, an old friend of Robin's who approached Ironman preparation with the level of calm detachment that I might approach my laundry. I watched him reach into a bag and pull out a cycling jersey printed with a large "Wonder Bread" and colored circles. He looked at us and said "What do you think? Should I wear this tomorrow? I guess I'll cut the price tag off now and throw it in my Transition bag..." He looked like the sort of guy who might also throw a six pack of his favorite beer into his Transition bag. Jose was accompanied by his very cool girlfriend Gen.
Eventually Robin and I made our way up Main Street in Penticton, and tracked down a group of women he knew whose husbands were participating in Ironman. They were hanging out at a coffee shop called "Fibonacci's Cafe". I thought it was rather funny when the woman at the cash register said "...can I take your ORDER..." I wanted to tell her I'd rather she take my sequence. Robin told me I was a nerd for thinking that was funny, but really I think he was just jealous he didn't think of it first. He's way more of a nerd than I am.
After drinking horrible coffee at Fibonacci's, we drove back towards Lake Skaha to see if we could find a better campsite. We soon located the "Lake Skaha Tent & Trailer Park", which was a more upscale, clean, amenities-laden campsite. The proprietor was a woman named Maria who, being the good, friendly Canadian that she was, assumed that we were Ironman athletes and asked us if we were ready for the race. Robin told her he had done the race before but was just a spectator this year. She said "Your name's Sherwood? I remember you. Yeah. You've been in this race before." Ummmm. I highly doubt she remembers all the athletes. Very odd woman. But we gave her money and went to retrieve our tent and brought it back over to the new campsite, after stopping for beer, ice, and a bottle of Jack Daniels. The tent only took us 7 minutes to set up this time.
That afternoon, we took Robin's bicycles out for a short ride along the course. When we returned to the condo, we watched Dean and the rest of the gang devour their "last meal" as if they were on death row, wildly downing every last gram of pasta and anything else they could stomach. I asked if they seriously intended on not eating again before the race at 7 AM the next morning, and Logan told me she simply didn't want anything in her stomach because her body would certainly not digest it anyway -- since all her blood would be diverted to her muscles. Why leave anything in the stomach? Robin and I then walked to a nearby restaurant called Salty's to engage in our own sympathetic pre-race carbohydrate loading session (i.e. beer drinking). We sat down next to a guy who was wearing a shirt with the the logo of the company called "Nuun" printed on it. Robin, being an avid consumer of Nuun products, excitedly asked him if he worked at Nuun. The man introduced himself as Tim, the owner of Nuun. "I guess you sort of work there, then?" said Robin.
We left Salty's around 9 PM with the intention of playing around downtown some more, but we were both exhausted from lack of sleep so we headed to the campsite instead and planted ourselves in campchairs. 2 or 3 hours later, we noticed the bottle of Jack Daniels had mysteriously emptied itself into our mouths, and I realized that might be th explanation for my raging headache and nausea. Oops. Rookie. Yeah, I was no Ironman.
Next day, we bolted out of our sleeping bags at 4:30 to head down to the beach so we could witness the start of the race. Again, the Penticton morning was absolutely gorgeous, the air was still, and the sunshine lit up the surrounding hills in a spectacular fashion. We mingled on the beach with our athlete friends. 2,335 of them, to be exact.
It was quite a sight! Pink and blue swimcaps, black wetsuits, a mass of general uniformity that made me sort of uncomfortable in the way I get uncomfortable at seeing a group of prisoners gathered together in chains, wearing the same drab outfits. For some odd reason, I was reminded of concentration camp prisoners in a Holocaust movie. I'm not sure why that particular analogy came to mind at the time. Maybe it's because they were all being herded towards the same scary start line -- a line that led to the unknown.
There was fear in the air, but the predominant vibe was excited anticipation, hope, camaraderie, even love. There was lots of back-patting, high-fiving, and thumbs-up. 2,335 nervous athletes were poised to embark on a hellacious day, which for some would be an 8 or 9 hour ordeal and for others a 13 to 17 hour ordeal. The palpable energy in the air was invigorating and the collective audacity of the moment truly struck me as a vivid testament to the peculiarity of human beings.
The first cannon boomed at 6:45 and thus launched the small group of truly insane individuals who are PROFESSIONAL triathletes. The pros get a head start (so they can't cheat by drafting off "Age Groupers" who happen to be excellent swimmers, according to Robin, who happens to be an excellent swimmer). Their departure elevated the remaining athletes' sense of imminence, and soon the cannon boomed again and the water immediately became a churning mass of arms and legs and pink and blue and black. It was quite a remarkable sight which I will not soon forget.
"And so it begins..." I said out loud to myself, while picturing Theoden of Rohan at the beginning of the battle at Helm's Deep in Tolkien's "Return of the King". Did I mention I was a nerd?
A 17 hour race doesn't really generate a sense of urgency on the part of the spectators -- one might think. But this is Ironman!!! Most of us spectators rushed to the finish line on the beach, poising ourselves for action shots of our friends and loved ones destined to appear an hour or so later. I knew it would be awhile before any athletes showed up; the triangular 2.4 mile course was so long that I could not make out the swimmers on the far leg of the triangle. I lost my prime spot near the finish line because I had to go to the bathroom then make a stop at the coffee stand in an attempt to mitigate the effects of the mysteriously empty bottle of Jack Daniels from the night before. I relocated to the area where the cyclists emerge after stripping off their wetsuits and donning biker gear and begin their 112 mile ride. About 8:20, I saw Lesley tap-tap-tap out on the pavement with her bicycle and start her day in the saddle. I observed that she was ahead of schedule, and hoped that meant she had a clean swim and hadn't over-taxed her energy systems already.
Robin and I returned to the condo and retrieved Gen and the three of us drove out backwards along the bike course so we could intercept the riders and shout our encouragement to our friends. We found a Subway sandwich shop in a little town called Keremeos (which I have no idea how to pronounce, and for some reason that fact really annoys me). Robin drove us to about mile 55 of the bike course and we parked on the side of the road, near the top of a long hill, so that the bikers would be going slowly when they passed us and we could take good pictures.
We provided aural stimulation (say THAT out loud) to the bikers in the form of Robin's iPod loudly blasting from the car speakers while we stood outside the parked car and ate our yummy sandwiches in full view of the exhausted athletes struggling by us. The music was a nice touch, though. I witnessed athletes visibly perked by Robin's collection of hip-hop, trip-hop, hick-hop and pop-rock. It was pretty cool.
The temperature was probably mid to upper 80's by this point so I think they were suffering. We saw Ben, Ian, Logan, Cindy, Dean, then Lesley... then Jose in his fantastic Wonder Bread cycle jersey. Jose flashed us a hang-loose and shouted "Shake and bake, baby!" I have no idea what he was talking about. Gen giggled. So did I, but I'm not sure why. I think it was the damn Wonder Bread jersey.
After our friends all passed, we sped up the road to another stopping point a few miles away and waited again, this time at a roadside fruit stand where young girls brought around trays of free fruit slices, including watermelon and something melon-like called "Yellow Baby", a term whose frequent repetition provided no unending amount of amusement to Robin, Gen and me. We waited for quite awhile and started to worry about our friends who seemed later than they should have been; it turned out later that Dean had suffered a flat tire, Logan was experiencing some digestive issues, and Cindy was having mechanical problems with one of her shifters. Eventually we saw everyone we cared about, then headed back towards Penticton via backroads so as to avoid the traffic jam of spectators. We drove along Route 3A and it was a fantastically gorgeous road that I'd like to return to on my motorcycle one day.
The condo on Lakeshore drive overlooked the first mile of the run course. Because of the way the course was set up, that stretch of road was also the last mile of the run course. So we plopped ourselves down with a beer and cheered our buddies on from the balcony. I soon realized that Lesley had already passed by (that, or she had crashed and was WAY back there somewhere) because soon we saw Dean (visibly limping), then Jose ("Shake and bake, baby!").
An hour or so later, we became aware that the first pro racer was nearing the end of the Ironman course! We excitedly watched a short Canadian named Jasper Blake sprint up the street at about a 6'20" pace, make the turn near the condo, and sprint back to the finish line. He finished the course in 8 hours, 18 minutes and change. He ran a 2 hour, 48 minute marathon -- AFTER riding a bicycle for 112 miles, AFTER swimming 2.4 miles. Wow. And he barely looked winded. What a display of human courage and tenacity.
As I get older, the sports heroes of my youth (Michael Jordan, Joe Montana, Ken Griffey Jr.) fade in remarkability as I witness the phenomenal achievements of true athletes like this Canadian and his 2,334 friends. Being able to throw a fastball 100 mph or slam-dunking a basketball is pretty cool, but finishing an Ironman is WAY cooler.
We knew we were at least a couple hours away from seeing our mere mortal friends run by in their sprint to the finish, so a nap seemed in order. Or in sequence. In either case, we took one.
Around 5 o'clock I walked up the run course backwards to try to intercept Lesley who was likely to be passing by some time around 6 PM. At the corner of Martin Street and Lakeshore drive, I ran into some of her family members who appeared visibly agitated within their own sense of anticipation of her fate. Was she OK? Was she hurting? Was she close? Had she bonked? We didn't know; we couldn't know. She may as well have been on the dark side of the moon, completely cut off from Mission Control.
Several minutes later, after a quick stop at Starbucks for a mocha Frapuccino, I intercepted Lesley running down Main Street about a mile from the finish line. She was alive! And looked well! She was running along at about a 9 minute pace which was great for me because I've never been able to keep up with her on a training run; so I seized this opportunity and jogged with her for about 3 blocks. Secretly, up close I observed she looked quite exhausted and pained in a way I'd never seen her look before. So of course I said to her "Hey, you look great and you're kicking ass. Stay strong!"
Her reply: "Be careful. I might throw up on you."
OK, then. After my 3 block stint, I ditched back to the sidewalk after hearing a spectator cynically shout in my direction "Pacer!" I joined Tony and Lesley's other friends and family in the stands at the finish line and awaited her imminent arrival.
She was in a full-on sprint for the last 200 yards of the race. She flashed us all a huge smile, then crossed the finish line triumphantly at 11 hours, 5 minutes and 37 seconds, with her arms raised in joyous exultation.
I believe we were all moved by the moment.
Tony and I sprinted around to the backside of the exit area to check on her and we witnessed her collapse into the arms of 2 volunteer "Catchers" who quickly escorted her to the official photo spot, then gingerly guided her towards the medical tent -- where we all greeted her and shouted our congratulations. She could barely stand but she could sure smile.
I hung out in the finish area for a couple hours, chatting with Tony and other friends (old and new). Eventually, Lesley emerged from the medical tent looking much better and declined our plentiful offers of food and drink, but she expressed urgent interest in an ice bath.
I hoofed it back towards the condo on Lakeshore and as I passed the finish line I overheard the announcer say "...Logan Swanson, of Sammm--ummm--mmm---ammm-amish, Washington..." What? It was 8:13 PM and these guys were just crossing the finish line? These were some of the most incredible athletes I've ever met. What the heck happened? I glanced over and in the yellow glow of the floodlights I saw Logan, Dean and Steve -- holding hands, grinning, laughing, holding each other in solidarity at the conclusion of what turned out to be a pretty horrific day. All three had bonked in one way or another, and had basically walked the marathon. I thought to myself "Wow, they must be disappointed." But what I observed was quite amazing: I saw a real display of love and camaraderie, even teamwork in a sport designed explicitly for the individual. I saw a glow of satisfaction and collaborative love in the face of the expectation of disappointment.
I saw what makes Ironman great: not the 6'20" miler who finished the race in 8 hours; not the 35 year old 1st-timer who took 4th in her age group and qualified for the Ironman Championships in Kona, not the 75 year old nun who crossed the line within minutes of the midnight cutoff, not the $7 million worth of bicycles grouped at Transition Area 1, not the $2 million worth of wetsuits laying in a pile on the beach, not the $14 million dollars in revenue realized by the town of Pentiction that weekend, not any of the heroic efforts of overachieving, obsessive-compulsive adults...
What I saw was genuine love and it moved me. I saw a beautiful woman holding the hand of her limping fiancée and the hand of her British friend, after they cartwheeled over the finish line. I saw smiles in the midst of blood, sweat, tears and vomit (literally). I saw a group of human beings who reminded me why I'm glad I'm not a monkey or a butterfly. We humans have the capacity for utter solidarity in the face of absolute anguish and demoralizing peril -- and suddenly I realized why the concentration camp analogy occurred to me 13 hours earlier while watching these same people launch themselves voluntarily into what would prove to be one of the most painful days of their lives. They were together, and it is this, above all, which makes humanity great. We care about each other.
I will always remember that beautiful vision of Robin's friends at the finish line of Ironman Canada '06.
I thank them for the image, and for the reminder of what makes our species special.
posted by Max at 10:07 AM
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