> Honeywagon Half
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> The temperature is just above freezing and the frost is thick on the lawn as I
set off on my bike. Just a few ducks ripple the still waters of Lake Padden,
their outlines vague in the vapor rising gently from the water surface. I turn
up Yew Street, enjoying the climb as it warms my blood. Despite my windproof
jacket and fleece cap I get chilled coasting down the other side to Lakeway,
where John is waiting patiently beside his bicycle, stamping his feet and
swinging his arms as he tries to stay warm. This is a good training day for us
as triathletes, since riding our bikes to and from Everson and running the
Honeywagon half-marathon there amounts to covering the bulk of a half-ironman
race distance.
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> We ride past the mist-shrouded waters of Lake Whatcom and climb up Britton
Road, John leaving me in his wake as he powers up the hill while I grind up in
the granny gears. Being on my mountain bike pays off on the downhill, where I
fly through the bends with the confidence instilled by fat knobby tires while
John> '> s tri-bike skitters all over the frozen road surface. Onto Mt. Baker
Highway, where a pack of roadies zooms past. Shirtless Man is sucking wheel at
the end of the paceline. We wonder at his fortitude and question his wisdom,
since the freezing fog is still hanging thick in the air and windchill is
shaking my body despite three layers of polypropylene. We turn onto Noon Road,
diving through a dense bank of mist, and emerge onto the rolling farmlands. The
air is still, and the sun is beginning to make some impact on the day. We ride
side by side on the quiet country roads, enjoying the hum of the tires on the
smooth surface as we make our unhurried way northwards. The terrain is far from
flat, but we enjoy working the rollers, and relish the wide views as the fog
lifts to reveal the surrounding snow-capped mountains. Soon the treeline of the
Nooksack appears; we follow it into Everson, jostle with the morning traffic,
and arrive at the start of the race with almost an hour to spare.
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> Having an hour to transition from the bike to the run is an unusual luxury,
permitting a full change of clothing as well as a substantial intake of liquid
and calories. Plenty of time to greet acquaintances and try to decide whether it
is warmer outside, where the sun is shining but the air is frigid, or inside,
where the concrete gym floor is a slab of ice. I am more than ready for the run
by the time we move to the street and line up for the start.
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> As always the start is much too fast, but I can> '> t help joining in the
frenzy. Fortunately it doesn> '> t last long, and we soon spread out into our
natural order as we wend our way through town. I spot Carolyn just ahead, and
wonder how long I will be able to keep her in sight. The field is in single file
by the time we move beyond the outskirts of town and its traffic and enter the
quiet countryside. The pace is unsustainably fast for me, but I am feeling good
and decide to take it as it comes. I avoid looking at my watch, rationalizing
that most of the fast folk around me are probably just running the four-miler,
so the pace should slacken when our ways split. The mass of people turning right
instead of left at the critical junction proves me wrong. I came for a training
run, only to find myself in a race.
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> I follow in the wake of a guy running with two girls. He is an experienced
triathlete from BC, and we briefly talk about plans for the upcoming season
before I move ahead of them. The road is flat and straight, and the soggy
tree-lined farmlands spread out wide on either side, weighed down by the immense
blue sky. You can see the lead runners way off in the distance, disembodied
specks moving steadily across the pale green landscape pulling a multi-colored
train of other specks along behind them.
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> Two lone guys are just in front of me, one of them wearing voluminous plaid
shorts of a truly bilious hue. I don> '> t think I have ever seen plaid running
shorts before, and I can> '> t say I regret the omission. But it would clearly
be better if the offending object were behind me than ahead, so I set out to
remedy this defect. The chase begins in earnest.
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> For a flat race this course has a surprising number of hills. Fortunately they
are little more than gentle rollers, just enough to break the monotony and
distract you from the barnyard smells that give the race its name. I follow
Plaid Shorts up and down the slopes and begin closing in on him on the long
level boring stretch just before the halfway mark. I am both impressed and
irritated by the fact that a man with such ugly shorts and even uglier hairy
white legs can run so well. I am almost ready to pass him when Dave Dutton,
having answered a pressing call of nature, leaps out of the bushes surrounding a
decaying barn ahead of us and makes it a threesome. These are my companions for
the rest of the run.
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> I study Dave as he runs ahead of me. It is hard to believe that someone with
such an ungainly stride can amass his incredible running record. It almost hurts
me to watch him stomp the pavement, and it hurts me even more to note that my
smooth flowing stride is making no inroads whatsoever on his slender lead.
However, in time the pace slackens just a little, and I notice Carolyn slowly
pulling away into the distance as we near mile 9. Plaid Man is clearly feeling
the strain, and so am I, but I lengthen my stride and move ahead of him and Dave
anyway, knowing full well that I will pay the price eventually.
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> I have opened up a decent gap by the time we hit mile 10, when I feel the
first stitch in my side. Soon I am shuffling along like Quasimodo, hunched over
with a hand pressed against my diaphragm as I scuttle crabwise down the road
watching Dave and Plaid Man gain on me. Fortunately the stitch is only
intermittent, its main effect being to break my rhythm and give the opposition a
chance to see that I am suffering. The raptors gather on the telephone lines and
drool as I stagger by. Plaid Man passes me at the last aid station, but he is
fading and urges me back into the lead as his personal rabbit. Suddenly those
offensive shorts seem a bit more tolerable. My legs feel leaden and my energy is
drained, but I press on as best I can, dodging the malodorous spray of manure
from a rotating sprinkler near the edge of town. Those last stretches always
seem endless, the more so this time when the BC triathlete and company pass me a
mile from home, still chatting loudly. I wave to John, Jimmy and Paul going the
other way on their bikes; they have already scorched their runs and are heading
homewards. I raise my pace towards the end, knowing Dave and Plaid Man have me
in their sights; it is a relief to turn the final corner and crank a little
finish sprint that gets me to the line as the clock hits 1:41:30.
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> The sun has warmed the concrete slabs outside the hall, providing a sunny
patio on which to lounge and converse with friends while eating, drinking, and
shedding sweaty clothing. My digestive system is feeling unstable; it feels good
to just lie down and bake in the sun. I still face the bike ride home, but I am
happy to delay the suffering that probably entails.
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> The ride home turns out to be less unpleasant than I had feared, simply
cruising through the countryside at a leisurely pace, enjoying the sun. The main
problem is my backpack, laden with heavy wet clothing and running shoes that dig
into my back. I feel my energy levels drop as I near town, and have to stop for
a snack at Lake Whatcom before tackling the long, steep climb back up Yew
Street. I know how to ride that hill when I am near the edge, having done it all
too often: get down in the gears, focus just ahead of the front wheel, keep your
head down and grind relentlessly on until the thing flattens out. The key is
never to look up to see how far you still have to go. Once again the summit
eventually appears, and soon I am flying down through the S-bends and Lake
Padden opens up before > me, its waters sparkling in the warm Spring sunshine.
It has been a long and tiring but successful day, and I feel I deserve my nap.
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