At about 6am we'd pulled into the bank parking lot just above Johnson's Beach in Guerneville. As we stopped I hollered out the window, "Kathy!" Trinlif herself was right there unloading her bike, all set to tackle her first full IM.
"So, are you ready, girl? Ready to rock 'n' roll?" "I'm ready!" she responds with enthusiasm as she pumps up her tires (oh, those poor tires! if we had only known...). "I can't believe how calm she is," I remark to Kathy's crew, her pals Lori and Debbie. "It's gotta be just a facade. All right, Kathy, hold out your hand, let me see." Kathy obliges, and the tell-tale tremor gives her away. She's really focussed, though, and in great spirits. I give her a big hug and send her off with a bounty of good wishes.
Skip and I unload my gear and head down to the beach. The usual dazzling array of beautiful bikes and beautiful bodies surrounds us. "You know," I confide to my crew, "no matter how many times I do this, no matter how many races I do, or how long I've been in this sport, I still get intimidated as hell at races like this. Just LOOK at these people; geez! I feel like such a poser." I just never get over it. My head knows perfectly well that I'm no poser, that I'm an experienced, knowledgable, hard-working athlete just like the rest of these people; in spite of this, my gut reaction is always the same.
Skippy the Sage TriCrew just smiles and continues to wheel my bike down the hill to the transition area.
After the mile 40 aid station, I mellow a bit. I accept my fated DNF with something approximating equanimity, so I put it on cruise control. I try to relax and enjoy the beautiful scenery. Hey, look, there's my old buddy Yellowshirt pulled over roadside; looks like he's got a flat, bummer! A lot of flats out here today. I'm riding a patched tube in the rear wheel, hope it holds up. Even if I'm no longer racing I'd still rather not flat.
Ho de do, de do, hum de dum, pedal pedal pedal, spin, spin, spin, OUCH! Man, there's no mistaking that sensation; I knew it was too good to be true, getting this far without getting stung. Upon removing Mr. Yellowjacket from my person, I had to laugh. That laugh changed my entire attitude, made me reconsider what I was doing. Oh, come on, you've overcome feeling lousy before; maybe you can still do the run. Just get through the bike and see how you feel at the transition area. After all, remember what happened in last year's races when you got stung on the bike.
Funny how mercurial your emotions, your very state of being can be in mid-race. Not that I suddenly felt 100% better, but somehow, I *did* have a little more energy, a little more confidence, a little more sense of adventure about the whole affair. Rather than questioning "whether", I was now asking myself, "why not?"
With renewed purpose and vigor I pedal on. A few miles later I'm grinding my way up Chalk Hill. I actually pass a girl; *I* passed someone on a climb! There's a novelty. Not only that, but I haul my Clydesdale carcass over that hill with relative ease, just sitting and relaxing. That nasty little hill really didn't present too much of a problem, amazing! Hmm. And best of all there's virtually no climbing left on the bike course. Just 7 miles to go now!
I end up hammering those last miles. Now that I've mentally re-entered the race, I'm desperate to at least equal last year's bike time, if not beat it. I jockey back and forth with a couple on a tandem. Things get a little dicey in the final mile on Airport Boulevard where we're riding on the left side of the road, separated from the traffic by a line of orange cones. Our lane is very narrow, and I get backed up behind the tandem. I call out "On your left," and cautiously maneuver around them. Once I get by, I put the hammer down again all the way to the transition area.
Enter the TA, and grudgingly heed the volunteers' orders to slow down; it's a long way to the back. Rip open the velcro on the Carnacs, take a last swig of Cytomax. Oh, finally, there's my rack! My computer reads 2:56:something. If I deduct transition time, I'm right on my split for last year. Hey, not bad, all things considered. I take stock of how I'm feeling as I pull on running shoes and number belt. Hmm. Well, first of all, you have to get to the portajohn. Other than that, you should at least have no trouble starting the run. See what you can do.
Trot, trot, trot...Damn, why is it so hard to get my hat on my head? Am I that tired? What the... Oh. Duh. Forgot to take off the sweatband I was wearing under my helmet. heh heh. OK. "Hey, Skip!" I exit the TA, and there is my faithful crew cheering me on. "Go, TriBaby!" she cheers. "Catch!" I throw her my soaked sweatband. "You look great, go get 'em." Trot my way to the portajohns, both of which are occupied. That's ok, take the time to stretch a little, ah, that feels good. All right, in and out, ready to run. Hit the split button and get going.