While I looked for the captain to get my next assignment, I got to help family members desperate for news of their racers. It's not an official job or anything, just every time I tried to leave the room someone would notice my crew shirt and ask me to look for their athlete's bag. It was nice to offer the good news to several worried family members that the bag was gone and they were likely on the run.
The gear bag captain seemed surprised that I actually came back - I guess it's not common for volunteers to be that reliable. She was grateful that I offered to stay late and help, and then entrusted me with a large pile of timing chips from athletes who chose to drop at T2 that needed to be turned in. I was happy to help, and excited for an excuse to check out the finish line.
As I got my first glimpse of amazing view of the Capital over the finish chute, I
heard those magical words through the loudspeakers over and over again: "You Are An Ironman!!!!" As thrilling as it was to be there, the irony of my errand was not lost on me, and I quietly completed my task and went back to Ballroom C.
My first glimpse of the finish chute.On my way back to work I bumped into Manitoba Guy's wife just as he was coming from the changing room in search of a massage. I happened to have just seen there wasn't a wait, so showed him in and wished them well.
As soon as T2 officially closed the gear bag volunteers were on to the next task - gathering up all the gear bags and putting them in numerical order for the athletes to pick up. There are nearly 8000 bags in all. Even though they are officially not available for pick-up until after 6:00, there weren't even enough volunteers to actually pull the bags together, let alone to police the family, friends and athletes who were breaking through our meager defenses (a handwritten sign on the door) to dig through them. While I had broken the 6:00 rule in the T2 room, sneaking bags to tearful athletes who'd dropped and desperately wanted to go home, I maintain that it's different. There's a lot more certainty involved when an official volunteer locates your bag and confirms your race number than when your mom roots through all the bags and then leaves out the wrong door and gets past the volunteers verifying race numbers.
Before I got too deeply into bag sorting I paused to talk with an athlete in the changing room. She'd been brought in off the bike course and was distraught that she hadn't been able to finish the ride. She had limited expectations for her race - had really just hoped to make it through the bike - and was being quite hard on herself that she hadn't met them. I told her about the elites I'd heard about that dropped shortly after the swim and her spirits were raised considerably to think she made it farther than some of them. Then the medical volunteer praised her for allowing them to drive her in (she had heavily debated finishing the ride after they took her chip), and told us stories of athletes she'd treated who were dangerously hypothermic (one such racer had a pulse of 41) and had literally said "fuck you" when she suggested they discontinue the race. I don't really know if I helped her much, but by the time the three of us finished talking she seemed in better spirits, and was no longer claiming she'd never race again.
Then it was back to the bags. I didn't mind that people were picking stuff up ahead of time. I get that they were cold and tired and wanted to leave. What I did mind was the ones who were not particularly nice to us when they couldn't find a bag, and the ones who sorted rudely through the bags, pulling them out of order and not putting them back. This served the dual purpose of creating extra work for us and creating a hazardous situation by filling the narrow aisles with jumbled piles of previously organized bags. I should state for the record I never saw this from an athlete - they were wonderful, and grateful for the assistance in getting their gear - it was from their supporters who had no understanding of the monumental task we were trying to perfom with maybe a third of the necessary people.
I helped a lot of staggering athletes step over the enormous piles of bags on their way to the changing rooms. I picked up a lot of bags for athletes that couldn't bend over to do it. I found one athlete curled up asleep on a pile of bags. And in between I was running back and forth to the changing rooms, where the remaining (several hundred) gear bags were staged for sorting. This is a simple task, but it takes a lot of effort and we were extremely short-handed. Even though my shift had long since ended I couldn't leave - I'd have felt too guilty enjoying a break and a snack knowing they were still struggling to finish all that work. It got so bad the gear bag captain was actually recruiting helpers from the family members who were sitting around waiting for their athletes to arrive.
I should note that directing post-Ironman athletes through this felt a lot like herding cats. I can't tell you how many dazed men I shooed away from the women's room, even after pointing out the men's. I saw one wide-eyed man being escorted out by another volunteer, and when I went in I heard the nude athlete laughing that it was too bad she didn't have much for him to see. There were no signs and this was at least the tenth time that day I wished I'd brought a marker.
Around 8:00, now two hours past when my shift officially ended, my feet were throbbing and I found myself staring blankly at the bags, no longer able to decipher the numbers. I realized I was going to start doing more harm than good - there were enough bags in the wrong spots as it was - and regretfully said my goodbyes to the Gear Bag Captain, who thanked me effusively for staying late.
As I was leaving the gear bag pick-up room I bumped into
Tri-Blogger Chris. He looked amazingly fresh considering he'd just finished an Ironman. We chatted for a bit and then I headed for the finish line.
Iron ChrisAs I headed for the finish line I realized I was hungry and thirsty - I'd finished off all the soda and water I had in my backpack and I was parched from the cold medicine and hours of running around - so I stopped by the volunteer tent for a few minutes. I had a little pop, some damp pretzels (you know you're hungry when that's a good thing!), half a banana and part of a stale bagel. The best part was sitting down for a few minutes. I chatted with the very nice ladies staffing the tent - they didn't know anyone racing, didn't even really know anything about triathlon. Just really nice people who live in Madison and wanted to help out.
After thanking them for the food, shelter and rest I went down to the finish chute with a half-formed plan. I wanted to see my friends finish, wanted to stay to the end if I could, but I did not want to stand around doing nothing for three hours getting colder and wetter. Problem was, I didn't have the right color crew shirt or the right kind of wrist band. So, fingers crossed, I walked right up to a guard, said I was there to work, flashed my bright yellow (transition!! - the finish chute bands were blue) wristband and he let me in. I approached the first work station I came to, told them my other shift had ended and asked if they needed help. They were just as short on volunteers as everyone else that day, and had me working before I even had a chance to set my bag down. Too my very pleasant surprise, as I began my new task I looked up to see I was standing not two feet from
RobbyB, whom I'd met at Simply Stu's dinner.
I hadn't officially signed up for a finish chute job because I wasn't sure what to expect; I didn't want to get in over my head and let someone down. I'm glad it worked this way my first time because I had a perfect view of everything (except, ironically, the actual finish line) and was able to figure out what the various jobs were and confirm for myself I can do them all. I will definitely sign up for finish line duty next year; I can't always count on lax security to get me in!
The task I helped with when I first walked in was done quickly, then they moved me over to take the place of a woman whose shift on the finisher bags was just ending - this was where I stayed until the very end. The finisher shirts are inside the bags with a hat and bumper sticker; after the catchers ask each finisher their shirt size they ask us for a bag. It's extremely fast-paced at times, and it takes two people to do it, one with a size in each hand, and a back-up person bringing over fresh boxes as they empty out.
It sounds kind of boring when I explain it - hearing "small medium medium large small medium x-large medium medium" for hours on end and handing out bags - but it really wasn't and I had a lot of fun. Some of the catchers had cute little sign language they did so you were ready before they got there, sometimes me and the other guy would try to guess the sizes before they got there - the Ironman version of the 'boxers or briefs' game. Silly, sure, but we laughed a lot and the 3 hours passed lightning fast, in spite of my obsessive watch checking and looking for TriSaraTops and Iron Wil and Pharmie and all the rest. The older gentleman I was partnered with was another kind soul who didn't know a thing about the sport, but lived in Madison and enjoyed helping out.
Looking pretty pathetic after 15 hours, but still having fun.Around 10:30 the rain started coming heavier and my heart went out to the athletes still on the course.
The heaviest rain I saw on race day.When the captain said we were running low on Medium shirts I pulled one out and wore the bag the rest of the night, just in case. I didn't know if Iron Wil had finished yet - but I had learned from RobbyB that TriSaraTops had. In any case, if she came in I wasn't going to let her go without the right shirt size.
After the countdown to 17 hours there was a frenzy at the finish line so I walked down to find out what was happening - two older gentlemen were carrying each other down the chute, and though they arrived nearly 2 minutes past, the race officials said they were finishers. One of them was
Frank Farrar. I saw a young man run down the chute, looking around wildy - then he leapt over the table I'd been standing at all night, grabbed a chair and ran back. I couldn't see where he went because this was the same time I was being pushed out of the way by the news cameras surrounding Frank. I would later learn the young man was
Lisa's friend Ben, getting a chair for the gentleman who came in with Frank.
As I backed away from the cameras I saw one of the catchers running over to the finisher bags and the captain arguing with her that he wasn't allowed to give them after midnight. She said a man's name (I don't remember it, but my impression was that he was in charge) and that he was insisting they get finisher gear. She grabbed two bags from a box and ran back to the men - I noticed that she had grabbed XXLs, quietly pulled out a couple of Ls and caught her before they gave him the bag on camera.
There was nothing left for me to do, and I was beyond exhausted. I got my bag, went back to the hotel and crashed.
On my way out of town the next morning I made a stop. I walked a well-worn path through the trees and stood on the lakeshore, contemplating Monona Terrace and what it means to me as an aspiring Ironman. I was about to kick off my shoes and step into the water. I wanted to feel it on my skin, to make this moment my first symbolic step towards my ultimate goal. Before I could perform this silly little ceremony an enormous cloud of mosquitos descended on me and I ran back to the van. But that's ok. Because like my husband said, there's always next year.
