AT 29 (37 page)

“RED LEVEL ONE!”
burst from the speakers followed by the loud crack of the starter's pistol. The best triathletes flew into the water. Jimmy watched nervously as he pulled his cap over his head. There, it was done, officially marked as a first timer for all to see.

Monitors carefully watched. Between the buoys lifeguards in wet suits and white caps sat atop surfboards, ready to paddle swiftly to any swimmer in trouble. He was pleased by the organization of the Lake Champlain Half Iron Man Triathlon. Within minutes the strongest swimmers were halfway to the corner buoy where they would make the first turn.

“GREEN LEVEL TO WATER!”
Jimmy watched another group approach the water's edge. The gun blasted and they hurtled in. As he moved to the shoreline, he smoothed his wetsuit, running his hands over his thighs and calves and down his forearms. It was unnecessary.

“ORANGE LEVEL TO WATER!”
The largest group of competitors, in bright orange caps, emerged from all around. Jimmy hastily made his way, almost frantic as he sought a spot at the shoreline. On his right, an older man with a big belly straining the seams of his wetsuit glanced his way and smiled.

“I'm told the shakes go away once we get going.”

Jimmy bent forward. Winning was never in the cards, just finishing without making a fool of himself. At the sound of the gun he hit the water, diving face first. The frigid liquid shocked his system and he struggled to bring his arms down and through, seeking with all his might to find his rhythm. In seconds, a line began to form. Occasionally, his feet nudged other swimmers, but soon the orange caps separated into spaces of their own. He forced his head out of the water to look ahead, keeping close to the buoy line on his right. He had no sense of time, but he was pleased when he approached the first turn and noticed several green caps not far ahead. He was holding his own.

At the turn he made a big kick, submerging briefly as he swung his arms in a broad swath. A moment later he emerged into the sunlight, passing between two green capped competitors, stroking unconcerned as he moved by. The small triumph filled him with confidence. At the next turn he could see the shore where red-capped swimmers climbed out of the water. His competitive juices flowed. He wanted to join them as quickly as possible.

With all the energy he could muster, he stroked and kicked in unison, gliding through the water with increasing speed. With less than three tenths of a mile to go he spotted a red cap twenty feet ahead. He made it his goal to pass at least one of the experienced triathletes before he hit the shore. It happened faster than he expected. By the time he climbed from the water he had left three red caps in his wake. This small victory was so unexpected that he began to think he could finish among the leaders. Now, he fixed his attention on the transition. Three minutes from the water to the bicycle starting line was acceptable. If he could get to the staging area, peel off his wet suit and run the Centurion to the starting point in two minutes, he'd be ahead of his goal. Magazine articles advised competitors not to remove their swimsuit, but merely to put lightweight shorts over it. Jimmy had his misgivings, fearing that miles of pedaling would cause the damp suit to chafe his skin. But, he followed the recommendation, spreading anti chafing cream over the creases of his inner thighs before slipping shorts over his Speedo. Still brimming with confidence, he yanked the Centurion from its perch. Then he ran the bike to the end of the row, nearly colliding with another racer who was running his bike up the lane.

When he reached the pavement he mounted the Centurion, pleased that the swim seemed to have no effect on his stamina. He snapped his shoes into the clamps and pedaled off at a frantic pace, up a short incline and then down along the shore on Malletts Bay Avenue. Biking was not his strength and he knew it. With fifty-six miles ahead of him, his only goal was to navigate the distance without mishap, passing only when it was necessary, being passed as required. The muggy conditions signaled a grueling three plus hours followed by an even more daunting run. He had wrestled with the notion of wearing a sweatband under his helmet, deciding to forego it at the last minute. He regretted his decision.

He'd traveled several miles before the first wave of better riders overtook him. The ten bikers maintained a careful, but close distance from one another as they went by, one by one, pedaling furiously. Jimmy kept right, trying to decide if he should keep pace with the group. He continued to feel strong, his legs responding easily to the constant pumping. As the last member of the group slipped past, Jimmy sped up, determined to keep her in sight.

Periodically, he looked at the stopwatch strapped to his handlebars. He knew that the better riders in his age group could complete the circuit in less than two and a half hours, the less skilled an hour later. If he could finish the bike leg in three hours, he would be thrilled.

Twenty minutes later, he spotted the first rest area where scores of cyclists idled for a short respite. Most of the riders stayed with their bikes while volunteers walked among them, cheerfully carrying trays with plastic cups of water. In the center, a few tables were setup, most with large brightly colored banners advertising various
commercial sponsors. A first aid tent sat nearby. Jimmy was surprised to see a few riders queued by the entrance.

He decelerated into the area, careful to maneuver slowly among the other bikes and bodies. He was pleased that he was able to keep pace with the group that passed him, but the girl he marked continued on without stopping. He wondered if she noticed him close behind and wanted to shake him. He gulped down a cup of water and pedaled off.

Upon entering South Hero, the trek became more demanding as Route 2 started to climb through dairy farms and summer estates. Jimmy pedaled rhythmically, trying to keep a steady pace. Often, he found himself entirely alone, almost as if there were no other racers, but merely a pleasant ride through the countryside.

When he reached the turn at North Hero, he stopped at the second refreshment station. The line had thinned on the long route. Fewer riders took a break with many opting to continue. The sun bore down with its heavy heat and, for the first time, he felt the leaden weight of exertion take hold of his legs. After two cups of water, he reentered the course with several other bikers, careful to give them the lead. Let the better riders have their way.

While monitoring his progress, he let himself enjoy the homeward stretch. In all his travels he had never seen vistas more captivating than the Lake Champlain Islands. The broad blue water, speckled with sails, was picture perfect. It was hard to imagine anyone who could ignore the enchantment of it all. It served as a welcomed diversion from the toils of the race. And, gone were his worries about the future, the troubling memories that his conversations with George had resurrected, even his uncertainty about what faced him in New York. He let it all fade as he drank in the exhilarating loveliness. He was happy that he was back in Vermont and happy that Peg had welcomed him back into her life.

The spill happened in a straightaway leading to a short bridge into South Hero. As he raised himself on the bike, applying more force on the pedals, the gears locked unexpectedly. He lost control, pitching over the handlebars as the bike careened into a ditch. He had enough presence to let it find its own way, but there was little he could do to break his fall. He landed on his right shoulder, scraping the flesh along his forearm from wrist to elbow. For a moment he lay in the road, stunned.

Holding his elbow, he slowly stood and scanned the ditch for his bike. It lay in tall grass adjacent to the opening of a circular culvert. He walked to the roadside, and slid down the embankment. He raised the bike and examined the contours of the wheels. Nothing seemed amiss. Satisfied that everything was intact, he struggled to carry it back to the road. Several bikers whizzed by, oblivious to his plight. He lowered the bike on its side on the pavement, growing anxious at the lost time. As he scrutinized the gear assembly, two large sneakers appeared on the ground at the other side of the wheel. He looked up surprised to see the heavyset man who had spoken to him at the start of the swim.

“Having some trouble?” he asked, as he positioned his own bike a few feet away.

“Something's wrong with the gears.”

“Nasty scrape on your arm.”

“I'm more concerned with the bike.”

“I've got some ointment.” He handed a small tube to Jimmy. “Put some of this on your arm while I have a look.”

They switched positions and Jimmy watched as the man eased himself down and peered at the sprocket. In seconds, he seemed to identify the problem. He produced an odd ratchet from the pocket of his shorts and applied it to one of the attachments, turning it gently to the right.

“No damage from what I can see. These things get out of whack. Gears just need an adjustment.” He placed the tool back in his pocket and stood. “Got that ointment on okay?” In his delight, Jimmy had forgotten about the tube in his hand. He quickly applied a large amount to his arm. “That's right. Just spread it all over. Then test the bike.”

Jimmy rode the bike back and forth for ten yards, thrilled to find the gears operating fine.

“Thanks.”

“Glad to help.” Then the older man was off at a leisurely pace.

With renewed faith in his fellow triathletes, Jimmy sped off after the older man, overtaking him in seconds. He waved, then rose up and pedaled furiously, determined to make up as much of his lost time as possible. He swiftly traversed the corners, hills and valleys along Route 2, dismissing any thought of stopping. As he rode, he turned his thoughts to the triathlon's final segment.

It was well over three hours when he turned into the transition station and loaded the Centurion onto its rack. More than fifty percent of the racks were already filled so he knew he was on track, albeit among the lower half of the competitors.

The body is remarkably resilient, able to act instantly upon orders from the brain. But, unlike most other animals, the human quality of rationalization interferes with mere instinct, requiring good reasons for every action. Jimmy's brain could not summon any good reason to force his leaden legs, weighed down by muscles adjusted to fifty-six miles of constant pumping, to now carry his weight forward one step at a time. His calves and thighs refused to submit. He could barely walk as he forced his feet forward. Trotting was out of the question, running a distant dream. He feared the moment when he would reach the pavement and find himself among others who had better control of their legs. His only hope, he thought, as he ascended the hill and rounded the bend to the starting point, was that the magazines were correct and his legs would slowly regain their flexibility.

When he came onto the road, he joined a small group of runners who seemed to be struggling just as hard to find their strides. Spectators were gathered on a hill on the other side of the road. Some waved American flags, commemorating Memorial Day. Occasionally, a whoop rose up as onlookers recognized family or friends. Jimmy was pleased that no one rooted for him. He preferred anonymity.

The competition's last leg followed a simple six and a half mile route along Lakeshore Drive from Malletts Bay to Burlington's North Avenue where it reversed at Battery Park for the final stretch back to the finish, thirteen point one miles altogether. With the end in sight, his only thought was to make the best of the energy he had left.

Within the first mile, as the road bent left toward the Burlington city line, his legs finally got comfortable. He was able to establish a rhythm and pleased that he could speed up when it was necessary to pass a slower runner. Still, the heat and humidity began to take its toll. The light green baseball cap on his head was completely soaked, no longer capable of holding back the sweat that streamed into his eyes. He found himself constantly taking the cap off as he ran his hand up trying, unsuccessfully, to push the
perspiration back into his hair. He wiped his eyebrows, replacing the cap only to repeat the routine a moment later.

The run down North Ave was daunting. Few trees offered respite along its length from Lakeview Cemetery to Battery Park. The runners, dozens in varying states of exhaustion, seemed to lose their resolve in the unyielding heat. Some slowed to a walk, others stopped in their tracks, trying to gather themselves. A young woman in bright red shorts suddenly collapsed near the sidewalk fifty feet ahead. Three spectators quickly ran to her side. Jimmy steered clear, slowing his pace as he came upon the group. The woman was conscious, but her face was colorless. He cautiously continued on.

A large crowd filled both sides of the entrance to Battery Park. The overlook to Lake Champlain was a city landmark, a place to gaze out at the mile wide stretch of water and take in the sailboats and ferries. The mood was festive. Many in the crowd clapped as the runners rounded the drive and headed back in the opposite direction. They offered words of encouragement, holding out their hands for high fives. A few runners stopped along the wall bordering the cliff overlooking the lake. Jimmy had no intention of stopping. His legs told him they would not continue if he did.

At the end of North Avenue, five miles from the finish, a twinge took hold of his right thigh. Each time his foot hit the pavement it grew in intensity, morphing into a piercing pain that ran from his knee to his crotch. He continued to run while trying to massage it away, but another mile of pounding caused the leg to stiffen and he found it hard to bend his knee. Two miles further, as the avenue came to an end, he calculated the remaining distance across Heineberg Bridge and down Lakeshore Drive. He needed to find a way to will his body on for the final two and a half miles. Between his ailing leg and the perpetual sweat pouring into his eyes, he wondered if it was worth it. No one would care if he gave up. No one would know. Fatigue overtook every sinew of his body. He was spent.