Ironman is a complicated event, and requires that you get to the race site several days ahead of time. I arrived in Penticton, a beautiful area in the Okanagan Valley, on the Thursday prior to the Sunday race. The flight(s) out had been fun. Triathletes, and particularly the iron-people crowd, are very friendly and willing to chat in airports. However, the underlying nervousness after at least six months of focused training, coupled with the anxiety produced from the exercise withdrawal of the month-long taper was evident in all -- including me.

Returning to Penticton was a very emotional experience that hit the hardest on Friday morning. Part of my pre-race prep was a 40 min. swim in Lake Okanagan, the actual race course. When I got to the lake, the equipment racks, tents, and grandstands were already set up, and there were at least 80 triathletes also out for a last pre-race swim. Last year's race had truly been one of the most challenging, yet best experiences of my life, and the emotions were now pouring back.

The swim workout was glorious. The water was clean and clear, the distant mountains were spectacular, the people were incredibly friendly, and my body felt strong and capable in the water. There were a few athletes I knew by name and several more I recognized. Interestingly, since there are so few African-American triathletes (I didn't spot any in Canada) far more people recognized me.Registration for Ironman is a very special time. As with other races, you line up outside of some vast hall, and wait to get to the volunteer table to have your number assigned. In this event, however, there is a heightened sense of camaraderie. While in line I met a man and woman from Chicago (who had also met in line), a guy from Toronto, and a guy from DC. Though we were strangers at the beginning of the line, by the time we'd received our race packs we'd exchanged training and racing strategies, our feeding plans for the race and some fairly intimate details about our own bodily functions during these events -- all part of the iron-people fraternity.

One of the most gratifying things about Ironman Canada is the degree to which the townspeople support the race. In addition to the 5,000 volunteers who pamper contestants on race day -- thatís almost 3 volunteers per athlete -- the entire city opens itself up for the event. At registration you are issued a pink bracelet that identifies you as a competitor, and that you will proudly wear for the next few days. There are signs everywhere welcoming the triathletes, and on race day thousands of people line much of the route. No matter were you are in town, people spot your race bracelet, and come over to welcome you to Penticton and wish you luck. The entire city really rolls out the red carpet in every conceivable way, and you come to feel entirely welcome.

One thing that took me by surprise last year is that the local newspaper publishes a race program, including each competitor's name and home town by race number. So, all through the run you hear your name being called by the crowds. But, all of that was still to come.

Intensive pre-race prep is a part of triathlon, and it increases by a factor of about 100 for Ironman. Race eves seemed to arrive in no time. Though there was a pasta dinner, I, like many others, chose to spend the afternoon and evening in solitary preparation. The bike needed to be checked once more before surrendering it to race personnel by 4:30 PM. The gear bags for the bike and run legs, which also had to be handed in that evening, needed to be packed and double (and triple) checked. Can you imagine getting off the bike, maybe at a PR pace, to find you only packed one running shoe???

And, there were the "special needs" bags; those life-lines that are handed to you at the halfway points of the bike and the run, containing anything you think you might need -- PowerGels, water bottles with your special energy brew, even sandwiches or brownies. Mine were less exotic than many -- just 10 PowerGels, Ultra Fuel (2 bottles), 2 PR Bars, salt tablets, and dry socks. -- but with precisely the supplies I figured I'd need to stay with my 400 cal/hr feeding plan.

And, there was the race plan to review. This plan, which I'd only revealed to my trainer, included a 1 hr 10 min. swim, a 6 hr 30 min. bike, and a 4 hr 30 min. marathon. Add 20 min. for transitions, and I had a 12:30 Ironman -- a significant improvement over last year's 13:45. I was very skeptical about the swim goal, I'd only done a 1:20 last year, and I didn't think my swimming had really improved. But, everything else seemed reasonable. I calculated the 17.5 mph bike pace and 10 min./mi. run pace I needed to hit this goal, along with what would happen if I only could hit a 17.0 mph bike, and/or an 11 min./mi.run. And what would happen if I only did a 1:30 swim -- a very real possibility!

Next morning's 3 AM wake-up call announced show time. I arrived at the race start at 5:00 am (my customary 2 hrs before start) to find that most of the other 1,700 iron-people seem to use the same 2 hr rule. Fortunately, the massive check-in volnteer staff made short work of the lines. Everything seemed to be fine until I checked the computer on my bike. Evidently, the volunteer who had racked my bike damaged the cable, and now it wouldn't register speed or distance. Though it is certainly possible to race successfully without a computer, I freaked! Fortunately, after 30 min. of panic and trying to fix it myself, I found a bike mechanic who did the trick. Now my pulse could return to normal.

Even in the most elite triathlons (of which Ironman Canada is definitely one) there is no elite athlete staging area. While putting on my wet suit I noticed the (cute) guy next to me, and couldn't help asking, "Are you who I think you are?" Smiling, he said, "I'm Chuck" -- a.k.a. Chucky V. who had taken the tri world by storm a few years ago with his top 5 finish in the Hawaii championships. We shook hands and chatted about our nerves. Also milling around were Christan Bostros, Lorie Boden and Jan Wanklein (who I sat next to on the plane home) -- all among the top 10 triathletes in the world, in their respective genders of course. I'm the least star struck person I know, but I have to admit I was thrilled.

At 7:00 the gun went off and all 1,724 of us charged into the water for the 2.4 mi. swim. I'd chosen a more aggressive start position than the prior year (closer to the front), and quickly paid the price of getting hit and kicked for the first 800 yards. Soon, though, I settled into a rhythm and started enjoying the water and the scenery around the lake -- that helped me relax.

Though I wasn't pushing hard, I felt strong, and the first turn (about 1 mi. out) seemed to come up fast. In no time I'd made the second (and last) turn and was headed in to shore. Was it possible, even with all the swim workouts I'd missed, that I was going to have a fast swim? After touching ground I immediately stood up and looked at my watch -- 1:12, a full 8 min. off last year, and very close to my aggressive goal. I was psyched and bolted for the transition tent.

In Ironman Canada, transitions are done in a tent, which resembles Grand Central Station at morning rush hour. However, they are all men (at least in the men's tent), most are very attractive, and half are naked. The key, though, is to keep your focus despite the pandemonium (and some pleasant distractions) and make sure you hit every step in the transition from swimmer to cyclist. There are 112 miles ahead, and if you forget something you will be sorry. My transition was slightly over my 10 min. allotment, but I decided that was OK.

As I started out on the bike I remembered my trainer's advice -- Eat something right away! Your heart rate will probably be high from the swim; try to get it down to 150 - 155. Don't worry about being passed right now, you are strong enough on the bike to catch them later. I did it all.

The first hard part of the bike leg was Richter Pass, a 7 mi. climb that comes at 40 miles into the ride. Just before starting the hill I checked my speed for the first time -- 20.2 mph! Well over my 17.5 goal, 40 mi. down, and I felt great -- Fabulous!The climb was hard and hot, but not as hard as last year. Surprisingly, I found I was having trouble on the descents after Richter Pass. There was a strong cross wind, and my new aero wheels were feeling very shaky. I decided a few minutes weren't worth the increased danger and slowed down. Now, for the first time on the bike, I was being passed by a lot of people; but, I didn't care.

After the downhills, the crosswind turned into an unbelievable headwind. And, it seemed to be getting even hotter. At the 50 mi. point there was a medical tent, and I'd seen two people receiving IVs when I went past. Only halfway through the bike, not even close to half way through the race, and people were already dropping out. Not a good sign!At about 60 mi. in, I checked my pace again -- 17.8 mph. Not bad, but not much room for error either.

The second big hill was at 80 mi. Going in I felt OK, but by the top my right quadricep started to cramp (a symptom of dehydration) -- OH NO! It was so bad I actually had to get off my bike and stretch. Panicking, for the next 22 mi., I grabbed every fluid in sight, and drank every drop. I put down almost five bottles of liquid in an hour, the leg cramps seemed to stop, but I wasn't sure if the damage was already done.

Coming back into town I was tired and sore, and dying to get off the bike. But, even with the cramps, my bike time was only a few min. off my 6:30 goal. When I stepped off the bike, though, my legs and feet were so stiff that I limped towards the transition tent. This was much worse than I had anticipated; the ride had clearly taken a lot out of me. How was I going to run a 4:30 marathon? It doesn't matter, I thought, just start running!

The second transition was much slower than the first, probably almost 15 min. And, I wasn't the only one taking my time. Some guys were actually lying down on the benches! Going out on the run start I was still very stiff, but surprisingly I could run reasonably well. But, boy was it hot! I was tempted to ask a volunteer for the temperature, but decided that maybe it was better not to know.

By the third mile I realized I was keeping a 10 min. pace. Unbelievable, I thought, maybe I can still pull-off a 12 something race! And, I was blowing by a lot of people who looked like very experienced triathletes; many of them walking. The big question on my mind, however, was how long could I keep this up?

The answer: Until mile 11! Then, I (as they say in tri geek circles) blew up. In fact I blew sky high! From mile 11 to mile 12 my pace dropped from 10 min. to 12 min. At mile 13 I had to walk the big hill that came just before the halfway point. Soon, my left hamstring was cramping to the point that I had to stop every mile to stretch.

But, as bad off as I was, many of the people around me were worse -- much worse! Despite my slower pace, I wasn't being passed very much. Instead, I was seeing people sitting on the road -- or lying on the road. And then there were the dozen or so people I saw throwing up off the side of the road. The race ambulance past me at least 7 times. One woman, at mile 17, was lying on the ground, flanked by medical personnel and moaning in pain. She was cramping to the point that she was unable to straighten out her legs.

None of these were a pleasant sight! And, they cause you to wonder how long before it would be my turn on the ground. I decided to adopt a new race plan. I would stop worrying about my run pace altogether, and walk for 30 sec at every mile marker. There was no longer any chance to do a 12-something race, and if I didn't take care of myself I might not finish at all.

The next nine miles were the most difficult I've ever run, but I finished (without incident) in 13:46:57 -- one minute slower than last year!

I was devastated. Despite how down I was about my time, it is impossible not to be moved by the extraordinary crowd support at the finish. There are several thousand people lining into last couple miles, all yelling your name as you approach. the finish line commentator announces the name of EVERYONE WHO CROSSES THE LINE, along with a few personal notes pulled from a bio all racers have been asked to provide ahead of time. The finish line tape is held up for every finisher. After you cross the line you are immediately embraced by two volunteers, and you look up to see a TV camera staring you in the face. One of the local stations televises the race all the way up until the 17 hr. cut-off, and shows every finisher crossing. With all the hoop-la as you approach, you'd think you were winning the race. And, in Ironman circles, everyone who finishes really is considered a winner.

A friend of mine, Bo, who had finished 3rd in her age group (30-34) met me at the finish and congratulated me. "I was a minute slower than last year!" I said, nearly delirious, and thoroughly focused on the clock. "A whole year of hard work and I didn't get any better!" Bo proceeded to tell me, very directly, that I was out of my fucking mind. All of the top pros (elites) were substantially slower than last year, and most age-groupers (non-elites) were an hour slower than last year. The temperature had hit 100 degrees (this was the first time I'd been told just how hot it was), hundreds of people were being carried off the course (there were almost 300 DNFs), and if I'd held the same time as in 1997, I'd actually improved A LOT. I was moderately consoled.

Soon after finishing I decided to take a trip to the medical tent to get checked our -- just to be on the safe side. I'd never felt this bad after a race, and some mild dizziness made me decide to play it safe. The medical tent (which had over 70 beds) was a mob scene, and people were actually waiting in line for beds to open up. Fortunately I didn't require a bed. My blood pressure had dropped a bit (due to fluid depletion) and I was advised to take it easy for the next hour of so, but Iíd probably be OK. I went and got a 30 min. massage -- more wonderful volunteers -- and a second blood pressure reading revealed that I was going to be fine.I met a few people in the finish area, swapped a few stories, but realized I was much too whipped to carry a conversation. Two friends of mine from New York were still out on the course and I wanted to wait around to see them finish -- if they finished -- but I knew they were at least a couple hours back. Some of the top finishers had returned and were now cheering on us mid-pack iron- people -- after their 9 hr performances there had been ample time to nap, freshen-up, change, and returned to the finish area. I wanted to stay, but realized I was much too tired and retreated to my hotel to crash. Just before I went to sleep, I could hear the fireworks that signaled the midnight end of the race.

The next day when the race results were posted I found out just how right Bo had been. I had moved up 386 places in the overall standings! Despite what I thought was an unbelievably slow last 13 mi., I was solidly in the middle of my age group. As I thought it through, I realized that being average in this crowd, in one of the fastest age groups (M 35 - 39), in one of the premiere Ironman events in the world, was just fine -- in fact, it was very good!

The awards banquet is held that evening, and is attended by about 3,000 people. I must say, it's interesting to see the top racers gingerly negotiate the stairs up to the stage to receive their awards. Apparently the muscle soreness doesn't discriminate. Several of the top finishers talked about the difficult conditions, and one speaker (Dave Scott, a now retired Ironman legend) gave a lengthy pep talk. He noted that many, or most, people had probably not reached their time goals; and a lot hadn't finished at all. He urged us to take conditions into account when evaluating our performances, not descend into the pit of self criticism that can follow such experiences, and to always remember that doing your best is really all that matters. Crowd reaction clearly showed that he had hit a nerve.

One of my favorite things about triathlon is the fact that it mirrors life so well. And, as in real life sometimes you find that extraordinary circumstances do force your to alter your plans. My experience in Penticton this year did help me to learn to measure accomplishments based on the actual circumstances, not the ideal.