Boz: After Nick passed me at mile 52, I texted his
aunt-in-law Jodi to let her know that he was still doing well. She replied with, “He is almost there. Just like the Popeye shirt he was wearing
yesterday - strong to the finish!” I
wanted to ask her why Nick has a
Popeye shirt, but decided to table the question for another time.
As
I leisurely made my way back to my car, I did some quick math in my head. So, he’s at mile 52 meaning that he has 4
miles to go, and he is biking about 20 miles per hour meaning that he covers a
mile in 3 minutes, meaning that…he will be in the transition area only twelve
minutes from when I saw him!!! I quickly
drove back but had to park three blocks from the transition area. I was pretty sure I had made it in less than
12 minutes, so I just waited for him at the spot where he would dismount his
bike, instead of waiting for him at the transition area. I wanted to snap a picture of him coming in
from the bike and then run to the transition area with him.
At
one point, I snapped a picture of a guy who I thought was Nick, but after
running with him for a few strides, I realized that I was following the wrong
athlete. I can only imagine what he felt
as a big, random, sweaty guy was chasing him.
Several minutes more passed and I still had not seen him. I figured that one of two things had
happened: he had either made great time and beat me there, or he was dead.
Nick:
As we reached the outer part of the city, people were starting to sit up
on their bikes and slow their pace. I kept my pace until about mile 55 where I
passed the 1-mile sign. At this point we wound through town a bit so it was
good to sit up and take the turns easy. We came back onto the narrow bike path
and it felt like the Tour de France with people lining the trail. We all had to
ride single file through the swarm of people. I heard “Go daddy!” from what
sounded like my 6-year-old and I gave a wave to the crowd hoping he’d see it.
Sure enough, just a few feet farther up were my wife, kids, and mother on the
right side next to the rope, cheering and taking pictures. I thought about
putting my hand out for a high five but didn’t trust that I could do it without
crashing magnificently in the middle of the crowd.
I finished back through the now very
trampled and muddy grass corner and rode up to the dismount area. The officials
had now tripled in number and were screaming at people left and right to get
off their bikes sooner.
Boz: I hustled to the transition area, but a fence
kept me from going to his exact spot, where the presence (or not) of his bike
would tell me his fate. From my distance
of 20 feet, it looked like his bike was not there, although it was tough to see
with so many bikes packed in so closely.
I texted Jodi to say, “Can’t find him.
His is either already running or he is dead.” I am sure she appreciated that.
A
sprint triathlete who had already finished walked by and I asked him to check
for Nick’s bike, number 239. He walked
to Nick’s spot and poked around for about ten seconds, seemingly not finding
anything. Oh no, Nick is dead.
Just then, the triathlete peaked up, smiled, and said, “239,” as he
pointed toward Nick’s bike. I let Jodi
know that Nick was indeed alive and she said, “Okay, that’s good.”
Nick:
I dismounted and started to jog my bike up to my transition spot, but my
legs were like rocks. I walked a few feet with my bike on my left side and then
tried to jog again, but I was just dead weight. I walked gently up to my spot,
hung my bike on the rack, and took off my helmet calmly, seemingly realizing
that I was probably not going to win the race.
I took my time as I bent over to change
my socks and shoes. As I’m tying them I realized my toes and the whole outer
sides of my feet were numb. Tingling numb. I strapped on my race bib, grabbed
my water bottle, and started to jog out of the transition area.
But, no matter how hard I tried, I
couldn’t push off my numb feet with more normal stride, so I started to slog
through my gait and plop down on my heels with every step. I wound out of the park and back through the
crowd onto the road. My cheering section moved out from the bike trail to the
running path and greeting with a roar. I
waved, forced a smile, and gave a “Whoo!” as I passed.
I didn’t see a yellow shirt with them,
so perhaps Boz sweat so much that the shirt became a brownish/orange with salt stains. Either that, or he was one of the cars that
was being scolded by the cops for driving on the course, while claiming he was
a member of the Associated Press.
This is the guy who looked like Nick from a distance - and thus whom I stalked for a bit (that is the correct usage of who vs. whom; I looked it up).
This is actually Nick coming into the transition area (picture courtesy of his wife).
Nick just starting his run and presumably about to blow by another runner (picture courtesy of his wife).
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