I suppose most of you thought that last week’s race report was the last e-mail you would receive from me for a while. Not so! I wanted to send this one for a couple of reasons. One was to correct an error in the details. I had said that the photographer taking the pictures of the famed underpants run in Madison was Bill Bradley. Actually it was Larry Etter. Bill and Nancy were just getting to the motel in Madison and having their own underpants run, but let’s not go there.
Larry was too embarrassed to do the underpants run so he said he would take the pictures. The next thing I knew he had stripped down to his “tighty-whities”. That way he could feel like he was running half naked down the streets of Madison without the fear of pictures being plastered all over the walls of Delton-Kellogg Middle School or pictures showing up on the news when he runs for political office.
The second reason was to report on the “recovery swim” I did on the 19th with 600 other insane people and my sane son, Matt. It’s called The Tiburon Mile. It’s an open water swim from Angel Island to Tiburon in San Francisco Bay. Before you get too concerned, there were very few sharks sighted, and the water temperature was a balmy 62 degrees. It started out raining like cats and dogs before the race. No, Becky, I don’t know what kind of dogs…it’s just an expression. The race officials hadn’t planned on rain since this was the first in about four months. As Matt and I registered, the race officials were dry under a tent and we were standing directly under the edge of the tent in the run-off.
I had one slight pre-race setback. The night before the race I wanted to get everything set so I could just get up in the morning and go out the door. I looked everywhere at the Bed and Breakfast and I couldn’t find my swim suit (since I got home I’ve found it on the bedroom door handle at the cottage). Matt said he and all the other surfers go “commando” (naked as a Jaybird) under their wetsuits. I could have since I wouldn’t be removing the wetsuit immediately after I got out of the water, but my mind drifted back to the famed chafing incident at The Great Buckeye Challenge Half Ironman, so I wore my underwear. No, not the tighty whities again…my black designer briefs.
Matt and I had a blast with his partner Tonya and dog Drew as support crew. We talked with a couple on the ferry on the way to Angel Island and talked with a few people on the beach before the swim started. As I looked around, it reminded me of a triathlon start. Most of the people were extremely fit. There were a few that looked like me, but most were members of college swim teams, high school swim teams and masters swim groups. There were world class open water swimmers and some Olympic medal winners. The winner received a prize of $25,000 and, no, it wasn’t me.
The race is to benefit the Special Olympics and this year over $200,000 was raised. While we stood on the beach at Angel Island, the crowd of swimmers split with an aisleway down the middle. Several Special Olympians with pink swim caps were introduced, walked down the steps to the beach and through the crowd receiving high-fives all the way. One young man stood at the top of the stairs with his hands raised and bowed to the crowd, walked to the bottom of the stairs and bowed again. It was very touching.
After I finished and was waiting on the docks for Matt, I overheard a couple of guys in their mid-thirties talking as they walked by. One guy said something about looking to the side in the water and seeing one of the pink hats so he speeded up since he didn’t want to get beat by “one of them”. I thought to myself, I probably would have slowed down a little. The race was only important to me to be swimming with my son. The finish time meant nothing to me and may have meant everything to the mentally challenged athlete.
As I rode back on the plane yesterday, my thoughts drifted back to that comment. Before I dropped into that smug “holier than thou” attitude about how I would have handled the situation, I looked back at the number of times I have helped/befriended/talked with anyone who is mentally challenged. My current batting average is .000 for life. Thank God for those who do.
As in triathlon, I was I the middle range of my age group. It was a nautical mile and my time was 34:39. So, what’s a nautical mile you ask (well, maybe one of you…the rest don’t care)? A nautical mile is a distance on the earth’s surface of 6,080 feet, which is equal to one minute of latitude at the earth’s equator. That’s 1.1515 land miles in case you need it for a Jeopardy Quiz.  Matt came in a couple of minutes after me and was complaining of being beat by a 57 year old geezer. Actually, he was happy with his swim and knew that I had trained for 24 weeks for twice the distance. Besides, kids don’t call their own parents geezers, do they?
As in the Walker tradition, Matt and I spent the day before the race finalizing our training by brewing a batch of beer. Also in the Walker tradition, since we didn’t drink alcohol before the race…it has a tendency to dehydrate…we followed up the event with a trip to a brew pub for some post-race recovery drink. That followed by a short nap and a trip to Tommy’s Mexican Restaurant for margaritas and dinner, and we were properly recovered.
As a final note, yes, I was at the San Francisco Giants game last Friday night when Barry Bonds hit his 700th home run and, no, I didn’t catch the ball.
So this is the last of the e-mails for a while. I get lots of notes saying that you have enjoyed the weekly updates and I have enjoyed writing them even more. I know my sense of humor is “out there” sometimes, they are full of “inside’ stories that only those involved understand, and my presentation skills are awkward, but now most of you know me better than I know myself. Besides, I never intend to be published, and I don’t have to turn these papers in to an English teacher (although I’m sure Mrs. Youngs is spinning in her grave…there I go again with an “inside” reference that only Hastings townies understand).
Thank you again for your support and encouragement during my recovery from “The Wreck of ’03”. It surely helped keep that demon at bay.
Just (Now What Do I Do After The Sunday Long Run?) Jack
P.S. Keep Elaine in your prayers!