This is part two of a two part article. See the sidebar for a link to part one.
As I mercifully parked Apollo at T2, the clock ticked over 8:00:00 just as I strolled onto the oval. People around me were running for the tent, but it was raining so hard I wondered, “What’s the point?” I was wet. I was going to BE wet for a long time. Why should I also be in a hurry and get all cranky? My friend Robin was there waiting for me, but she was calling it a day. “I had this at Florida, I sure don’t need it here. Be safe – don’t get hypothermia.” She ran off to change into dry clothes, as I strolled - like Gene Kelly in ‘Singin’ in the Rain’ - towards T2.
I got into the tent and sat down. Water was running off the canvas roof, creating waterfalls on all sides. The tent was slowly flooding in from the puddles on the outside, so I knew if I dilly-dally’ed about too much, I might be the first person in triathlon history to drown during transition. For some reason, I dried my feet with paper towels - I still don’t know why. I put on socks and ate a Pop-Tart whilst waiting for the rain to stop. Five minutes later, I realized that the rain might not stop, ever. I looked for a manual on ark building. I looked for a life preserver. I looked for a Priest for last rites before I headed out.
With much heaving and sighing, I rumbled out of the tent and into the rapids. Getting to the street required a 4-foot broad jump (and I only came up 2 feet short after a solid run-up), but at least I was finally running. I might actually get warm, if not dry…?
I ran downhill into the maelstrom, and was immediately lapped by Joanna Lawn (who was still leading at that time). As the ESPN camera crew filmed her, I realized that I was probably going to be, ‘that guy’ – the guy used as background fodder to show the world just how fast the pro women really are. To help in the comparison, I slowed right down and dropped away twice as fast as usual, trying not to trip over a cone, pothole, or driftwood.
As I ran down the hill and out of town, I looked for the mountains off to the North that I’d been thinking about all day. Their majestic shadows were the very distraction I would need when turning away from the ski jump towers for the out and back section of the run. However, much like the bike, there was nothing to see but clouds, fog, and more rain. I was really starting to get depressed. This wasn’t the race I’d hoped for. This wasn’t the race I’d written about having last month. This was the worst weather I’d ever raced an Ironman in, and it wasn’t showing any signs of giving in.
One thing was sure – I wasn’t going to quit. I was being tested. Mother Nature had shoved a grenade down my shorts and pulled the pin, but I was still running. I was developing a nasty case of diaper rash from 10 hours of wearing a clammy chamois, but I wasn’t stopping.
Through the entire first lap of the run I looked for my friends and high-fived everyone I knew. I ate everything I could get my hands on. I drank the soup starting at mile 8. Some folks even recognized me as ‘Hurricane Bob’ out there and that just helped me more than you can imagine (thanks to all of you!). It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t fun, but I kept telling myself, “You want fun? Go back to Disney. You want to know what you’re really made of? Finish this race.” I’d get down, but I’d fight on. “Get through this lap, then you’ve got one to go.”
I climbed back into town. I got a high-five from my friend Art, and Karen Smyers (who was quietly spectating her Team Psycho teammates). I told Lynda and my mom, “At the rate I’m going, dinner reservations for you guys are going to be a good idea.” When I got to special needs, I had a secret backup plan: I had M&M’s in a Fuel Belt flask, my ‘rocket fuel’ for the last 13 miles. I called out my number, and the volunteers went scrambling. Then they looked at each other. Then they scrambled some more. Then I joined them.
Five minutes later, it was pretty clear there was no bag for #637. No M&M’s. I know I’d put it there, but that’s how it goes. It sure wasn’t the volunteers fault – they’d been out in the rain as long as I’d been there, and were doing the best they could. I plodded on down the hill, and started my last lap, albeit with a massive sweet tooth that was looking for a fix.
11 hours. I’d been out there 11 hours. Just 13 miles to go now. I saw my friend Cathy Taylor. She asked me, “How’s your race?” I whined about the weather, the wet shorts, and the lost M&M’s. “I’m still running, though!” I added. I was going to finish. If I had to walk the rest of the way, I was going to finish this sucker and show Mother Nature that she could give me everything she had, but I wouldn’t quit.
As I headed out past the ski jumps one more time, I could see rain clouds coming down from the North yet again. I knew that I wasn’t going to finish before it started raining again, and that concept really put fear into me. I was slowing down now – I wasn’t running fast enough to stay warm. If I got really soaked once more, I might not make it. Robin’s warning about hypothermia rang in my head – I’d hate to get to 22 miles and shiver into an ambulance less than an hour from the end.
I had to keep moving the best that I could. Just as I was coming up with a plan, my friend Anik and her husband Francois rode up to me on their bikes. “Bob, we have a surprise for you.” Anik reached into her pockets, and pulled out the greatest gift a man could ask for after racing in wet shorts for 12 hours: Two packets of M&M’s: One plain, one peanut. “Cathy Taylor bought them for you, and asked me to deliver them.”
Yes, dear readers, it was total outside assistance. I admit it. I broke a rule. Without my special needs being there, I had to take them – I needed all the help I could get to make it home. I’m sorry to say it, but I really had no choice. I downed the M&M’s, and a spring returned to my step. However, this spring wasn’t enough to keep Dave Decker from catching me, passing me, and dropping me. “Can you come with me?” He asked. “No chance,” I replied. M&M’s or not, he was running – I was plodding.
The rains came for their curtain call, again. I was instantly cold and knew that I wouldn’t run fast enough to beat the fading light and dropping temps. I grabbed a Mylar sheet from an aid station and tied it around my neck. I grabbed a glowstick. With the foil rustling around my body with every step, I looked like a 200-pound bag of Jiffy Pop headed down the road (or the world’s largest Hershey’s Kiss - minus the little paper flag on my head). I used that joke on every volunteer and racer that passed me, and if they smiled it was worth it to me. At least I could keep moving and stay warm, sort of.
The sunset over the ski jumps I’d so desperately wanted didn’t happen and instead the light towers came on for me for the first time in my Ironman career. As the rain continued to pour down, I couldn’t help but notice that the rain dancing under the lights was just like the flashbulbs from the lagoon all those hours ago. The drops danced and sparkled as I ran beneath the nightsuns, the sounds of falling rain getting lost beneath the rustling of my foil blanket.
I looked like the saddest sack of humanity on the road. In both directions it looked like an Ironman refugee line. People in Mylar, plastic bags, wet clothing, and wrinkled numbers. We were all moving, but we wouldn’t be making any magazine covers anytime soon. Relentless forward motion was all we could do now at the back – it was all we had left. My dreams of Adirondack sunshine, smiles, sunsets, and mountains … gone under the endless tears from the sky. There was no sense in crying about it – that would just cost me salt that my body couldn’t spare.
I moved on, knocking down the last 5 miles in a slow march under the raindrops, listening to the sounds of the finish line growing closer with every step; the low clouds meant you could hear it even at the farthest point out on the course. Soon, I could see the lights of the oval, and I was grinding up IGA Hill one final time. There were still spectators there to applaud, and I was moving slowly enough to be able to thank each person that I shuffled past.
At the top of the climb at mile 24, waiting there as they had been all day, were Lynda and my mom. They were wearing their third change of clothes for the day, rain jackets, and the same smiles they’d had each time I’d stopped to see them. This would be the last time – just Mirror Lake Drive left to cover now.
“I’ll see you guys in there in 20 minutes!” I beamed. Of course, I hadn’t run a 10-minute mile since leaving T2, so I needed some way to pick it up and get home as fast as possible. I spotted a trashcan by the lake, and in one shot untied my Mylar blanket: I stuffed it in there, and let the cold, damp air bite into my skin. “You gotta’ run, or you’re gonna’ freeze. RUN!” I barked to myself.
I leapt into the best stride I could manage, and grimaced through the pain of legs that were having none of it. I was running, barely. 12 minutes later I made it up to the turn, walked for 30 seconds, and started the final mile of the longest day of my life.
I didn’t have to worry about sharing the road with anyone – the field was spread out by this time of night; nobody was within 30 seconds of anyone else. Coming down past the Lake Placid Brewery, I took the glowstick off my neck and started waving it over my head.
I had fought through this day, and I was going to finish my 6th Ironman in 6 years. There were 291 times that I wasn’t sure I’d make it, but now I knew I would. The dam that held back the emotions that I didn’t dare release burst, and I started shouting and waving my arms to anyone who could see me.
I was going to make it!
Paul Huddle was working the intersection on Main Street where the toughest sign and the greatest sign in the race stands: “2ND LAP LEFT – TO FINISH RIGHT” For me, he pointed to the right. “Point again, Huddle! Show me where I’m going!” I beamed.
He pointed again with a smile and beamed, “This way, buddy!” Now I was flying. My legs had no pain. Just 200 meters now; 50 mere seconds.
I crossed the curb and entered the barricades onto the Skating Oval in the dark. I’d remembered standing in the dark shadow of the finish line in the curve, away from the stands and the people 4 years ago. I’d run through here with my mom in 2000, but now this was my finale. I’d told my friends that in 5 previous IM’s, I’d never actually heard the race announcer talk to me at the finish: I’d been too out of it to hear. This time, I was listening all the way, grinning ear to ear.
The standing water from the day’s endless rain reflected the lights from the finish, and mirrored the faces of the people lining the barricades. I was still waving my glowstick, and looking around the bend, trying to catch my first glimpse of…
…. The blue rug and the floodlights came into view. “Look at the smile on this guy!” I heard Mike Reilly say as I turned the corner. When I heard him I tossed my glowstick, and watched it arc high above toe stands and into the top rows.
“This is Bob Mina of West Chester, Pennsylvania!”
I had been fighting the elements for 14 hours and 21 minutes.
I had been fighting my own doubts for 14 hours and 21 minutes.
“He’s a 6-time Ironman finisher!”
The last steps on the carpet splashed beneath my shoes, kicking up spray with every last step. With my hands towards the heavens one last time, I stepped across the line to complete the hardest 140.6 in my life.
“Bob Mina – YOU ARE AN IRONMAAAAAAAAAAAN!”
I couldn’t take another step, and stopped immediately. My legs locked, and I buried my face in my hands as relief washed over me. My catcher came up, and helped me get out of the finish line … letting me sob with the relief that was the sweetest sadness I’d felt in years.
14 hours and 21 minutes is a long time to be moving.
14 hours and 21 minutes is a long time to be wet.
But compared to how I would have felt if I’d quit, or crashed, or stopped when I was cold, wet, and doubting, those 14 hours and 21 minutes are nothing. Because of those 14 hours and 21 minutes, I won’t wake up every day for the rest of my life and ask, “What if I hadn’t quit…?” Instead I can look in the mirror and I can say the same thing to my reflection that Mike Reilly said to me for the 6th time: “Bob Mina, YOU ARE AN IRONMAN!”
14 hours and 21 minutes of misery is nothing, when it brings you a lifetime of ecstasy.
Number 6 was the slowest.
Number 6 was the hardest.
Number 6 was the proudest.
I am an Ironman. Again.
Thanks to Lynda, my Mom, Anik, Francois, Cathy and Bill, Matt and Traci, Eric, Tricia, Katie, Anne, Ben, Peanut, and every single person out there who said “Hello” to me when the saw the ‘MINA’ tag on my number. You carried me when I couldn’t carry myself, and I can’t thank you enough.
Hurricane Bob, Ironman. |
