Kendal, who won a gold medal in the women's marathon in the Olympic Games in Nairobi four years ago, blamed political considerations for AmTri's hostility to the Olympic long-distance triathlon. "Their feelings were hurt because they weren't involved in the decision," she said. "It's a shame that they can't put aside this kind of pettiness and try to represent the triathletes, instead of just thinking about their own selfish interests."
United States Olympic Committee (USOC) spokesperson Larry Hodge defended the action by the International Olympic Committee (IOC) that added the long-distance triathlon to the Olympics on unusually short notice. "It would have been nice to have more time," he admitted. "But we saw this as an opportunity that we simply couldn't afford to pass up."
Striking a conciliatory note, Hodge said that the complaints voiced yesterday by AmTri were "not without foundation." He agreed that the hasty preparations for the Olympic long-distance triathlon and for the trials might result in some of the arrangements being less than ideal. "But we wouldn't have done it if we didn't think we could do a good job," he added. "Four years from now, we'll do it perfectly. This year, we'll just be very good."
2.2.7: UPI
05-13 16:05 PDT
By HOWARD CLEPAK
UPI Sports Writer
SAN DIEGO (UPI) -- In a dramatic reversal of its stinging criticism of just two days ago, the American Triathletic Council (AmTri) reversed its position today and offered its support to the recent decision to stage the first Olympic long-distance triathlon this summer in Qen Phon.
Spokesperson Candace Aransky said that AmTri, the largest organization of American triathletes, still had serious reservations about the timing of the event, but now considered it to be "basically in the best interests of the sport and of the triathletes themselves."
Aransky said that although AmTri considered some of the decisions of the International Olympic Committee (IOC) to be "fundamentally flawed," the benefits of having the long-distance triathlon in the Olympics outweighed the disadvantages. "It will confirm that the Ironman-distance triathlon is a legitimate athletic event, and it will undoubtedly increase participation in Ironman-distance triathlons all over the world," she noted. "In the long run, it's bound to be beneficial to the overall health of the sport."
Pointing out that AmTri still considers the elimination of the rule against drafting (riding a bicycle in another competitor's "draft," in effect hitching a ride on their slipstream) to be a "serious mistake," Aransky said that AmTri would work with the United States Olympic Committee (USOC) to correct the situation before the next Olympics. "The USOC has shown a willingness to work with us that is most gratifying," she said. "We are confident that all of these issues can be resolved to everyone's satisfaction during the next four years."
2.2.8: Sturdivant Times-American
LOCAL WOMAN RECEIVES SURPRISE INVITATION
TO OLYMPIC IRONMAN TRIALS
Lack of Phone and Mail Service Delays Notification
by Melissa Beecham, Staff Writer
Sunshine O’Malley, a member of a local experiment in communal living, was notified today that she has been invited to compete in the Olympic “Ironman” triathlon trials in Dallas on June 5th. The Ironman triathlon, a grueling, long-distance event that combines swimming, bicycling, and running, will be included in the Olympics for the first time ever in Qen Phon this summer.
Miss O’Malley’s name was selected, along with the names of nine other lucky winners, in a lottery conducted by the U.S. Olympic Committee to determine the final participants in the trials. The lottery actually took place several days ago, but Olympic Committee officials were unable to contact Miss O’Malley until this morning because the “ashram” (communal home) where she resides has no telephone or Internet service and does not accept mail delivery. Finally, Olympic Committee press secretary Larry Hodge flew all the way from Washington to Hartford and drove to Sturdivant to deliver the invitation to Miss O’Malley personally. “We’d been able to notify the other 99 invitees,” Hodge said, “and Sunshine was the last one. I figured that it was worth a trip to make sure that the job was finished.”
This reporter accompanied Mr. Hodge to the ashram, which is located on the 350-acre property just northeast of Sturdivant that was Hiram Phillips’ dairy farm until its purchase and conversion into a religious commune last year. Miss O’Malley seemed curiously ambivalent about the invitation, as the idea of competition seems to run counter to her spiritual beliefs. “But I guess this is some kind of sign, me being selected out of so many names, and all,” she said. “So I guess I ought to think about going.”
Mr. Hodge was noticeably surprised by Miss O’Malley’s lack of enthusiasm. “I know hundreds, maybe thousands of triathletes who would have killed to get this invitation,” he confided, during the drive back into town. “It’s a shame that it didn’t go to someone who would have appreciated it more. But that’s the luck of the draw,” he added, philosophically.
Mr. Hodge said that Miss O’Malley’s name was included in the lottery because of her strong showing in the Greater New England Endurance Triathlon two weeks ago, the first and only triathlon she has ever competed in. Although an unfortunate collision with a photographer prevented Miss O’Malley from finishing the race, she attracted the attention of the Olympic Committee by her incredibly strong swimming performance. “She beat all the men out of the water,” Mr. Hodge said, “and, to my knowledge, that’s the first time that’s ever happened. In fact, the research that we’ve done indicates that it may have been the fastest Ironman swim for a woman in the history of the sport.”
2.2.9: FM 148
She grins when she hears the purr of the Lectra coming up behind her, sounding for all the world like somebody’s riding a power saw down the middle of FM 148.
“You are supposed to be swimming,” Jago Danziger says, shouting over the whine of the electric motor.
Jillian glances at him as he pulls up beside her. Even through his smoked visor, she can see that his eyes are filled with reproach. “It’s too nice a day,” she says. “Look at it – it’s perfect bike weather. I just had to get outside before it got too hot.” She smiles at him, then she turns her attention back to the road stretching out before her. “You understand.”
“What I understand,” he says, icily, “is that you do not need to be working on your bicycle riding this morning. Your bicycle riding is already, shall we say, adequate.”
Suppressing a smile, Jillian tries to look serious and properly chastised, but it’s difficult.
For one thing, Jago looks absolutely preposterous. He’s wearing plaid shorts, white tennis sneakers, a T-shirt with broad green-and-red stripes, and a bulky helmet that makes it look like he just beamed down from Pluto. His lanky frame and long legs make the motorbike look like a child’s toy.
And, of course, she knows that he’s not really too upset with her, that his chilly tone is largely for effect. If she had not been working out at all… well, that would have been a different story. But substituting one sport for another is a relatively minor infraction in Jago’s pantheon of offenses.
“Your swimming, on the other hand,” he continues, “is pathetic. You swim like a little girl. It is embarrassing.” They ride side-by-side in the early-morning haze, past the Country Store on the outskirts of Talty, around the sweeping curve that points the farm road at Terrell ten miles to the northeast. “No, that is not quite fair,” Jago adds, almost as an afterthought. “I know many little girls who swim a good deal better than you do.”
“Hey,” she laughs, “lighten up. Aren’t you the one who’s always telling me about the cross-training effect? You know, working on one skill improves your performance in other skills, and all that?”
“Jillian, my dear, I am quite certain that your swimming performance does, indeed, benefit from your running and biking,” Jago says, dryly. “I shudder to think of how incredibly poor a swimmer you would be if it were not for your other activities. You would probably sink like a s
tone.”
Jillian shifts down into a lower gear and leans farther over the aerobars, streamlining her profile as she slices through the air, which is already beginning to grow damp and heavy. Her legs churn furiously, and she spurts ahead of the motorbike.
As she gains momentum, she shifts back up again, then shifts up one more gear, then another. She maintains her torrid acceleration for several intense minutes, then she relaxes into an effortless glide, floating smoothly over the rough pavement, the silence broken only by the whine of the Lectra behind her. Finally, when the bicycle has reached a reasonable speed, she clicks down to a more comfortable gear and resumes pedaling.
“I am pleased to see that you are not neglecting your interval training,” Jago says, as he pulls up next to her. “I believe that your endurance will become increasingly important under the new Olympic rules. Especially if you refuse to work on your swimming.”
A shiny new pick-up truck pulls out of a housing subdivision that, from what Jillian can remember, was an empty field just a year ago. The driver honks and waves, but Jillian doesn’t acknowledge the greeting. Best not to encourage these cowboys, no telling what they’re up to.
A pair of scissortails chase each other in dizzying circles, chattering noisily overhead. A mockingbird perched grandly at the top of a utility pole runs through its florid repertoire with impressive gusto.
It’s a perfect day for a bike ride. Nothing, not even Jago’s petulance, can spoil it.
Today, at this very moment, everything is as it should be in Jillian Kendal’s world.
2.2.10: FM 148
Three years ago, Jillian had complained to Kimberly Overdorf that the most annoying part of her training was that she had to double back home on her early morning bicycle rides and fight the rush-hour traffic into Dallas so she could ditch her bike and change into her running shoes.
The girls had been in Jillian’s room, and G.W. hadn’t exactly been eavesdropping, but he had overheard the complaint as he walked by on his way from his bedroom to the winding staircase that led down to the oversized foyer. So later that afternoon he bought an acre of land just across the street from a cemetery a few miles southwest of Terrell, 30 miles from the Kendal mansion on White Rock Lake. By the end of the week, a prefabricated red metal shed stood on G.W.’s new property. And in that shed, Jillian now sits on a wooden stool, changing into a pair of dry socks.
“What did you mean about the Olympic rules?” she asks. “Are you talking about the drafting rule? Why would that matter to me?”
“Drafting will help all of the cyclists improve their times and conserve their energies,” Jago explains, as Jillian stands and stretches. “All of them, that is, except you. You start the bike leg so incredibly far behind everyone else that there is no one for you to draft. Meanwhile, all the cyclists in front of you will be taking turns drafting each other. They will start the run leg farther ahead of you than you are accustomed to, and they will be much fresher than ever before. Certainly, they will be much fresher than you will be.”
They step outside the shed. Snapping the padlock shut, Jillian slips the key back into the pocket of her shorts, where it clinks reassuringly against the small (but, she hopes, potent) canister of pepper spray that she always carries when she runs alone. “I don’t think I like that,” Jillian says, and she frowns as she walks back to the road. “Why did they go and legalize it after all this time?”
She waits while Jago slips into his helmet and turns the key that brings the Lectra back to life. Then she begins to trot down the shoulder of the road.
“I am certain that the Russians had something to do with it,” Jago says, when he pulls alongside her.
“Oh, Jago, for God’s sake,” Jillian laughs. “You see Russians behind every tree. Don’t you think you’re being a little paranoid?”
“You can laugh if you want to, Jillian,” Jago says, with a slight, but detectable, wounded tone in his voice. “But there is no doubt in my mind that the Russians ‘pulled the wool over the eyes’ of your friend Mr. Kennedy, is the expression that I think you use. Kennedy is under the mistaken impression that he won some kind of concession from them. But, in fact, I am certain that the Russians got everything they wanted from him.” Jago smiles. “As you say, the Russians ‘ate his dinner.’”
“His lunch,” Jillian corrects. “Ate his lunch.” Jago’s English is impeccable, she’s come to realize, except on occasions when he wants to annoy her. “But I’m sure you’re wrong. Uncle Stan’s much too smart to let anybody put anything over on him.”
“I am sure that he is a brilliant banker, Jillian.” Jago sounds unconvinced. “But I’m afraid that he is out of his depth when he is dealing with the Russians on international athletics. The Russians knew that they were losing the battle on drug testing, and it was making them look bad, so it was to their advantage to get the issue resolved as soon as possible.”
“But there aren’t any decent Russian triathletes,” she points out, impatiently. “So why would they give a shit about drafting?”
“I have thought a great deal about that very question,” Jago says. There’s so much intensity in his voice – too much intensity – that for a moment Jillian thinks that he’s making some kind of joke. But that’s not Jago’s style, of course.
She glances over her shoulder to make sure that no cars are coming, then she trots across FM 148 and starts to pick up speed as she heads down one of the back roads that will eventually lead her to the offices of Claney-Deo Oilfield Services. There, she knows, someone will be happy to drive her home – not so much as a display of Texas chivalry, but because Claney-Deo happens to be a G.W. Kendal Company.
“First of all, I started with the assumption that the Russians made no concessions, however it might appear to your banker friend,” Jago says. “No, I have come to the conclusion that, in fact, the Russians are training a team of triathletes to compete in the Olympics. They must be. They would never have consented to this otherwise. It is the only explanation.”
“Oh, come on, Jago.” Jillian is getting exasperated. “I don’t think that any Russians have ever even won an Ironman. So who cares if they’re training a couple of triathletes? You’re not going to tell me that they have someone better than me, are you?”
“Your confidence in your own abilities is most impressive,” Jago says, with only mild sarcasm. “And on the whole, although I should not tell you this, I agree that it is unlikely that there is a better woman triathlete than you anywhere in Russia. Or,” he sighs, “anywhere else in the world, for that matter. If I had not said it, you would have,” he points out.
Jillian laughs. She had, in fact, been about to say those very words.
“However,” Jago continues, not laughing, “by manipulating the IOC into legalizing drafting, the Russians have ensured that they can win the Olympic Ironman without needing a single triathlete who is better than you. They will practice as a team, and by the time of the Olympics, they will be a well-oiled machine. They will ride as a pack. They will draft on other riders. They will be miles ahead of you at the start of the run, and they will be in excellent condition.”
Jago grimaces as he considers the Russian challenge. “Of course,” he continues, “you could solve the problem if you would work on your swimming. Which is exactly what you should be doing right now.”
“Jago, don’t you think…”
“I have decided,” he interrupts. “This afternoon, you will begin a program of weight training. You will meet me in the gymnasium at 3:30. We may be able to dramatically increase your upper-body strength, even in such a short period of time. And you will…”
“Jago, you know how I feel about weights,” Jillian whines. “I don’t need to have bulging biceps just to…”
“I am not yet finished. Do not interrupt.” Jago’s voice is strong, but distant; Jillian can almost hear the wheels turning in his head as he plans her exercise regimen. “You will swim every day, seven days a week, without fail. You will cut down o
n your running and biking so that you have the time to concentrate on your swimming. I will have a complete schedule prepared for you by this afternoon.”
“I am not going to swim every day, Jago,” Jillian says, a hint of anger creeping into her voice. “And don’t talk to me like that. I don’t need anybody to tell me what to do.” Who does he think he is? I won one gold medal without his help, and I can sure as hell win another. I’m in tune with my body. I know what’s best for me.
Jago doesn’t respond. The silence grows thick between them. Jillian’s anger turns to concern, and she regrets having been so harsh, she’s obviously bruised his feelings.
“Look, Jago, I’m…
“If you wish for me to help you,” Jago says, coldly, “you will do exactly as I tell you to do, as all my students do. If you are not prepared to follow my instructions, or if you do not wish my help, it would be best for you to tell me now so I can devote more of my time to my other students, who appreciate my assistance.”
“Oh, shit, Jago.” She’s offended him like this several times before, and she knows that it will blow over faster if she’ll just shut up and keep her thoughts to herself. But damn it, he has no right to talk to her like that. “I’m sorry I said that, I really am,” she says, hoping that she sounds more contrite than she feels. “But I get upset when you talk to me like I’m a child or something. I’m not one of your little swimmers. I’m an Olympic gold medalist.”
“My ‘little swimmers,’ as you call them, have the good sense to appreciate the time I spend with them. They show their gratitude both by working hard and by following my instructions.” Jago’s tone is icy cold, he does not seem to have been mollified by her half-hearted apology. “My time is much too valuable to waste on someone who does neither.”
“What are you talking about?” Jillian stops abruptly in her tracks. Jago’s momentum carries him forward several yards down the road. He spins the Lectra and rolls slowly back to where Jillian stands. He shuts off the motor and removes his cumbersome helmet. He folds his arms. They glare at each other through the thick air and the deafening silence.
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