Ironman? Tinman? Strawman

Some people wouldn’t think that a 2.4-mile swim, a 112-mile bike ride—up and down 6,000-foot mountains—and a full marathon would be a great personal challenge. Maybe they’re the crazy ones. Maybe not.

In order to thoroughly test my endurance, I travel 3,000 miles and three time zones in a little metal cylinder at 35,000 feet, subject to the whims of about a million people wearing uniforms of some type and tiny earphones. Earphones that are probably playing SnoopyDoggieDoo or whatever, but which they pretend are life support systems through which the airport god is whispering about what planes are currently allowed to board and which planes can take off. And which planes should be boarded while the flight crew pretends they will take off, but really will not.

Oh yeah, and I bring the family along because if everyone is not part of this feat, then it is no fun at all. Not to mention it’s not a significant accomplishment. It really is more of a weeklong logistical endurance test. I don’t know if you’ve traveled lately, but that alone is a test to one’s endurance, not to mention willpower in not whacking at least a dozen airline employees who have yet more bad news to share regarding getting to one’s destination. Or not getting there, as is more often the case.

Before it is time to squeeze the family into cramped seats on planes that are not actually going anywhere, I have to ship my bike 3,000 miles. I watch the UPS dude like a hawk to make sure that the bike actually makes it on the truck. For one thing, the bike is worth $8,000USD. And I’m thinking that the UPS dude will have it sold on eBay and out the door at the end of the day, just not to Penticton for the race. With a new shipping label (but me still paying for the shipping). As they load it, I run over to make sure that it is still addressed to the real venue and not the highest bidder. That was a full day’s vigilance. Training, if you will.

If my bike went AWOL, my backup is about two feet tall and has training wheels, streamers on the handlebars and noisemakers in the spokes. I am certain that a) I would not win and b) the other riders would mock me, at least until they thundered out of hearing distance. Therefore, the bike is a crucial element of these festivities.

Okay, the bike was on its way. Now to worry about the rest of the equipment—the bathing cap. I asked my son to get me a bathing cap out of the bathing cap drawer and throw it in my bag. I did not look to see what he chose, as I thought we had only normal, twentieth- century bathing caps. I could not have been more wrong. I spent seventeen-plus hours on race day wearing a bathing cap that most closely resembles a hideous multi-colored flower bouquet that couldn’t possibly have been attractive—nor comfortable—even back when it was made at the turn of the eighteenth century.

Upon arrival in Vancouver, after setting up our own tent city in two different airports as we await news of the next cancellation, the family passes out for some much-needed rest in the rental car. Life is good. And relaxing. Until I am awakened by blaring horns. It seems that someone, namely me, is snoozing while driving on the wrong side of the road (it IS part of the commonwealth- anyone could make that mistake). Crap. Well, everyone is wide-awake now. Double Crap.

Eventually, after a drive nearly as long as some legendary seventh day, we arrive at our destination, Ironman, 2007, Penticton, BC (that is in Canada). This is where it all happens. This is where the ironmen—and women—will be crowned. Some sooner than others. Much, much sooner. Time to relax a bit, explore the town, find a grocery store. Have some lunch and absorb the vibe of the race.

In the store, I am completely baffled by the labels. Everything is in French. How am I supposed to find the Kraft Dinner if I can’t read the box? Overhearing me swearing aloud, some helpful Canadian lady (is there any other kind?) shows me the dual language labels and thus the English side. Apparently some Ironman-hating (American hating?) Francophile employee has turned all products in the store to the French labels just to mess with the Americans. You do not need to speak or read a second language if you are an American. We use volume. We will pump it up until we cannot be ignored. Turns out American is THE International Language after all.

Shopping was done, naps taken, swings pushed and exploring was underway. Playing at the beach was a highlight for everyone. Something tells me that no one else in the family will fully appreciate the sixty-seven degree water for the couple of hours it will take me for a two-plus mile swim. Sure, it looks like fun, but it really is not. Really. Not. Fun.

Time for the mandatory athletes' meeting—the make up one. The one for those who missed the mandatory, mandatory meeting. At least I wasn’t alone. First thing of interest that I learned: be sure to show up at the correct lake. Apparently, there are two lakes, with Penticton between them. The Athletic Supporter (who wore his title proudly, BTW) said if you show up at the lake and you are the only one there, it is either the wrong lake or the wrong day. Mental note- follow the other 2,399 athletes and I couldn’t go wrong.

Second thing of interest that I learned: ALL THREE EVENTS ARE HELD ON THE SAME DAY, BACK TO BACK. No rest breaks, much less rest days, between them. I really have to start reading the fine print. We are here for a week, because someone told me that the events took place throughout the week. CRAP. This is so going to hurt. Maybe I can get started now?

What can I do? If I die en route, then the problem is solved. If I die on the bike ride, maybe a bear will drag me into the woods and I will become part of the ecosystem. I would be okay with that. If I do not die on the bike ride, then I will keep chugging along and hoping. Odds are good that I will die at some point out there and then the pain will end. Sooner would be so much better than later.

The morning dawns. It’s cool. We are in the BC interior in August, usually it sizzles here—a dry heat. However, we are lucky. It is going to be cool, cloudy. Perfect weather for an insane event like this

I am up at four AM. I cleverly planned for classical conditioning all night long in preparation for the full contact swim. Getting kicked and punched all night long by a sleeping but still unbelievably active five-year-old sharing my bed was excellent preparation for getting hit, beaten and kicked by 2,399 other swimmers. My stimulus response has been worn down to nothing. Makes for a great night’s sleep too. I now look and feel my very best. Too bad that the swimming is first, it will be hard to sneak under a bush to take a nap and keep breathing. If we started with the ride or the run, I would be sound asleep under the first bush like a monkey on crack.

Before even getting to the start, I get in a queue of 2,400 of my closest friends in order to get our numbers written on our bodies. Apparently they need to write our race numbers on our arms AND legs. In the (likely?) event that we are separated from one or the other, “they” will know to whom the appendage belongs.

In order to get our numbers, we first have to go through an “inspector” who sends us to one of the two lines, apparently based on how furry we are. Women are inspected and graded also. This guy was excessively cheery for five AM. He must have had a Tim Horton’s IV hooked up to his arm. In addition, I am guessing that he must be using the swimmers/riders bathroom. I was careful not to step in the puddle next to him. There would be plenty of time for that later.

The inspector sent me to the left with the furless crowd so I could have my number written in waterproof, raspberry-scented magic marker on my right arm and calf. The furry people went to the right, where they shaved their numbers into the fur covered arms and calves with a straight razor. I was glad that I had been practicing a fur-free lifestyle for the last few years and did not have to face the razor.

Finally, I get to the swimming start, where the “professionals” get a head start. Apparently, they need it, lest we common folk show them up or get ahead of them. They get their precious fifteen-minute head start, and then we get to go. Let the wrestling match begin. I adjust my bathing cap so the flowers point north and take a deep breath.

It is a beach start, so after the starting gun we move en masse, surging into the water as one body with many, many unsynchronized arms and legs. It is not deep enough to swim and we are moving forward solely by pushing off the bodies nearby. Until they flow forward by pushing back against us. It is an ugly system and no one really seems to gain any ground. And it doesn’t change once we’re fully engulfed in the water. This goes on for an hour and thirty minutes or so. For me anyway. Full contact distance swimming. Good thing I wore my cup. Several people tried to steal my bathing cap. I fought off their attacks, and one person claimed that he thought it was a life preserver, but I did not believe him.

There is absolutely no way to prepare for this event, unless you can get to a seal or penguin filled beach when a school f herring stops by for a visit. Even that will not work, because they can all dive deep and I just drifted along like the flotsam that I am. For lack of options, I devoted many evenings in the bathtub practicing my dog paddle. Turns out, this is NOT adequate training for this event.

Finally, I think I can see people walking….I can feel the ground under my knees. Luckily, I didn’t have my glasses on—that would be odd, wouldn’t it? Therefore, I could not see anything through my goggles except for the blurry outline of the people whom I was hitting the most and the hardest. I don’t want to recognize them later, as I might hold a grudge. Or they might. It is just as well we are essentially anonymous in the water, except for the bathing caps.

I stagger out of the water. There is a one-armed guy is just ahead of me- I cannot believe that he have beat me. I really, really hate that. You would think that the one armed guy would at least swim slower than most of us two armed folks, but no. Huffing and puffing, I make my way into the transition area to find my bag. Funny, here the glasses would come in handy… but I have to find my bag to find my glasses.

A sympathetic volunteer, not the Francophile from Safeway, helps me find my bag. Then he takes me in a tent and tries to molest me. He is trying to take advantage of my exhaustion by removing my wetsuit and bathing suit. Pervert! This was NOT in the brochure and I cannot believe that the Athletic Supporters condone this perversion. Remarkably, I am too tired to care, so I let him do whatever he wants to me as I grab a catnap in the chair. Then he is shaking me awake and holding my shorts for me to step onto, just as I do for my son. I will not think about it, just do what everyone else is doing and let him pull my shorts up on me. They are tight biker shorts—you know the type. I do not think they will even let you in a race like this without spandex and lots of it. He neglects to remove my bathing cap and because I am now used to it, I do not even notice.

I follow the crowd to the bikes. I can see now, and can easily pick out “Black Beauty”. I can pick her out because she has a neon pink frame and electric green tire rims. I’m no fool, you know. Plus, if someone stole it…who am I kidding, no one would even consider stealing it. So I grab "Black Beauty” and take off. Sidesaddle. I’m tired, what can I tell you. If you have never tried to ride a bike sidesaddle, it CAN be done, carefully. You have to have the hoof holders on the pedals, though. Of course, the millions of spectators watching the bikes leave the transition zone are endlessly amused. Like they have never seen that before. They are exceedingly creative in their insults, especially for Canadians. Must be a mostly American crowd, that would explain it.

Almost eight painful hours later, the bike ride is nearing completion. I have not yet died, but am still hopeful. The flowers on my head are wilting. The winner has finished the marathon and set a record for 8:32:45. I am not even done with the bike yet. However, I have seen the one-armed guy—he ran by me on his way out in the run, as I was still fifty miles from the end of the bike ride. I am really starting to hate that guy. Showoff.

End of the bike ride. Hooray!! I couldn’t be happier. I can feel the flowers on my bathing cap perking up. At least now I’m less likely to hurt myself, as it’s not so far to fall, and it certainly won’t be at any significant speed. I can walk, or hobble 26.2 miles, I don’t know of I can do it by the end of the week, but as long as I keep moving forward, keep hoping to die, one or the other will happen.

It is a closed course, so I will not even have the opportunity to be hit by a car. I cannot hope to die that way in the next five hours. I guess I could take a wrong turn, find some traffic and hurl myself in front of it, but that sounds like a lot of work, and isn’t that promising. With my luck, I would be surrounded by helpful and friendly locals who would guide me back and make sure I did not get hurt. They would probably even feed me some TimBits. I would prefer Tiny Tim’s cinnamon doughnuts. This is when I wish I were racing in New York City. Those bastards would run me down in a heartbeat without spilling their mochachinos, or even pausing in their cell phone conversations.

I am making my final approach. I think I will actually make it and I am not yet crawling. The rules say crawling is an acceptable method of moving forward, though apparently rolling is not. I saw a few folks trying it and they got steamrolled.

I am 100 yards out….for the very first time, I think that I may actually make it. I’m very happy. And damn tired too. I have actually passed someone. The first time all friggin’ day. Of course, that “runner” was crawling, but that’s not important right now.

The cameras are on the runners, as we approach the finish line. I am now ten yards away and about to pass someone else. The crowd is going wild, and while I am not remotely sure why they are so excited for me, I am caught up in it. I am in a little clump of runners and as I raise my fists to celebrate with the crowd that clearly loves me, it is possible that I may have knocked over the tiny little woman on my left. I cross the finish line just as she hits the ground. I may have heard relics snapping like twigs. But I might not have. The crowd sours instantly and while I am still celebrating, they are now throwing all sorts of dangerous things at me, and I do not know why. Moreover, I am way too tired to duck.

I hear an announcement that the seventy-nine year Sister Mary Therese Maria Mary Patience, is down. I stop and turn back horrified. The crowd cheers and weeps as Sister Mary crawls on her broken legs across the finish line and they announce her time of 16:40:29. They do not announce my time.

I slither under the bleachers and stay there for three days.


Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.