The swim course is two loops, but you never come out of the water until the end. The route meanders through a pleasure boat harbor and includes a short trip around a man-made island.
I’m out of the water in 1:28, much better than I had hoped for and much faster than I have ever done in the pool. Unfortunately, I give a lot of the time back trying to get out of my wetsuit. Stripping off your wetsuit is a simple activity for most people but for me it’s a big chore. Whatever agility and flexibility I had in my younger years are long gone. I feel like I’m Houdini trying to escape from the Chinese Water Torture Cell.
The bike course has three loops with each leg featuring several good climbs. It’s one of those courses where the hills have descriptive names, like The Beast or Heartbreak Hill. This should always be a big warning sign to any cyclist. If a climb has a special name it has got to be tough. The easy ones rarely get named. You never hear of a hill called Baby Boy or Piece of Cake or Weenie Hill. It’s always something sinister sounding, a bad omen for old legs.
The first loop goes quickly. I’m feeling good from my Johnny Weiss-muller–like swim. The Beast, as its name suggests, is a beast of a climb but I make it. Heartbreak Hill comes somewhere around mile 33 of each loop, just 4 miles or so from the end, and is the steepest climb on the course. It’s a narrow road, only a half mile long, packed with spectators. The crowd is everywhere, there’s barely enough room to ride single file up the hill. There is a lot of noise, every other person is ringing a cowbell. The energy of the spectators seems to carry you to the top.
It is much warmer by the time I get my second shot at the Beast. I’m breathing a lot harder, sweating profusely, moving slowly. It’s no longer much fun, the thrill and excitement are gone. When I reach the top I stop and rummage around for my electrolyte tablets. I’ve somehow managed to lose them along the way. On this second loop the Big Guys start to pass me like I’m a sick cow. The descent off the Beast is very fast but they fly by in droves. Either they’re getting a lot faster or I’m really slowing down.
The second trip up Heartbreak Hill is hard, a nice crowd remains but nothing like the first time. It takes a huge effort to reach the top. My legs are dead. I’ve got forty miles to go and they’re screaming for relief.
On the third and final lap of the bike, the temperature gauge on my bike reads 89°F, and I can definitely feel the heat. I’m barely able to make it up the Beast. My bike swerves back and forth across the road, I have trouble going in a straight line. The seemingly endless climb squeezes the sweat out of me. I’m going so slow that I expect to keel over at any time. Some little kids on the side of the road point at me and laugh. They’re waiting for me to collapse and expire.
I’ve bonked. I’m absolutely drained of energy, every pedal stroke is torture. Sadly, I know what’s happening. Like anyone who has ever done long bike rides, I’ve been there before. When you bonk, there’s not much you can do but push the fluids and calories and hope you start to feel a little better.
The long descent into town does nothing to help me recover. The forty-five mile-per-hour speed that comes with no effort doesn’t even frighten me this time. I’m too tired to be scared.
Back in town, about six miles from the finish, I’m ready to tackle the final trip up Heartbreak Hill. The bonk is so deep that I have to stop along the street, get off my bike, and sit under a shade tree in someone’s front yard. I munch a PowerBar® and debate whether I should continue or call it a day. An elderly lady comes out of the house and asks me a couple of questions in German. When I sit there dopey-looking and don’t respond, she says, “I veel call the doktor.”
That gets me back up on my bike and headed toward Heartbreak Hill. If they gave an award for the slowest ascent of Heartbreak Hill, I would certainly have won. I didn’t get off and walk my bike but I came awfully close.
From the bottom of Heartbreak Hill to the transition area is just a few miles, and I’m out on the run at around nine hours, about the same time as in Brazil. My “fast” swim time made up for my slow bike, but I’m still bonked, it’s still hot, and I’ve still got a full marathon ahead of me. I have trouble changing my shoes, I have trouble standing up straight. I start out of transition still wearing my bike helmet and gloves before realizing my mistake.
The run course is flat and consists of four loops along the lake front. There’s a little shade but the temperature is still in the high 80s and it won’t get dark and begin to cool down until around 9:00 p.m. I manage to run only one hundred yards or so before I begin to walk. It’s a feeble effort, but it’s the best I can manage.
Time passes in slow motion. Pain is followed by more pain, torture leads to more torture. I see my family and get words of encouragement. I can see on their faces they have some serious doubts. They wonder if their breadwinner has gone off the deep end.
I’m wearing a race number with my first name printed in large letters across the face, along with USA. I attract lots of words of encouragement from the spectators. The crowd has a natural empathy for the slow guy, for the old guy, for the man who looks like he is about to die. I fit nicely in all three categories.
“Come on, John, just a little further,” they yell. They don’t realize I’m on lap two, not lap four. “Go John, go USA,” “Hop, hop John, go George Bush.”
When you’re exhausted, being called by your first name is more of an irritant than a boost. You can’t slow down, people are watching you. It’s an unwelcomed accountability, like someone is there, checking on you, making sure you don’t goof off.
Six-and-a-half hours after I began the run, I finally finish. It’s been a tough experience. I tell my marathon running buddies to remember how bad they felt at mile 25 of their last race, to recall how much pain they felt near the end. This was my lot for the entire 26 miles, every single step hurt, no relief at any time.
I do somehow manage to run down the finish chute, trying my best to look composed. It’s 10:30 at night and the Swiss spectators are loaded. Many have been drinking all day and they’ve packed the finish line area. People are grabbing me, slapping me, hitting me with those inflatable noise makers. Everyone on Heartbreak Hill earlier in the day must have loaded up their beer coolers and moved to the finish line. They’re three sheets to the wind, but they’re excited. The weak link has survived, the lowest common denominator has made it home.
In the post-race tent, I collapse on a floor mat, lie there a while, and give thanks that I’m done. I’m like an elderly mule who has been flogged a time too many, everything hurts, nothing works. I get someone to help me back up off the floor and I sit at a table and drink a couple of mugs of beer. It’s a tepid brew that tastes like dishwater. More importantly, it does nothing for my aches and pains. A fellow finisher breaks the bad news, this is nonalcoholic beer, compliments of one of the race sponsors.
This has to be one of the worst ideas ever foisted on the public, a genuine crime against humanity. I can’t believe the quality-conscious Swiss are part of this sham. I can guarantee the finish line crowd wasn’t drinking this stuff.
What’s next, low-calorie chocolate? Cows without bells? Swiss cheese without holes?
This race was a close call. I was just a few steps from ignominy and shame. Most of the races staged in Europe have an 11:00 p.m. cut off, rather than midnight. I had only 30 minutes or so to spare, but I made it. I gather my family and my bike, neither is allowed in the recovery area, and head home on the bus. It’s a great ride, everyone is hurting, everyone is relieved, everyone is happy.
It’s celebration time.
Traveling around Switzerland is simple and easy. It’s a small country, not even as big as the state of Mississippi, but Switzerland has a lot of stuff the people of Mississippi can only dream about.
There are all kinds of mountains, plenty of fresh clean air, lots of chalets, secret bank accounts, a huge number of cows and cowbells, many types of cheese (known collectively throughout the world as “Swiss cheese”), and beer with and without alcohol.
Most of these things (except for beer) are hard to find in Mississippi.
One of the things I like best about Switzerland is the generous assortment of red Swiss Army pocket knives. You see them at every shop in the country, they are almost as common as postcards. What a weapon, they come with a variety of options. Corkscrews, can opener, scissors, bottle opener, screwdriver, toothpick. They even make them with a laser pointer and an MP3 player. If warfare ever reverts to knife fighting alone, the advantage must go to the Swiss Army.
Mountains are another thing that comes to mind when you think of Switzerland. Everyone, of course, has heard of the Alps (the varsity mountain range), but the Jura (the junior varsity mountain range) provides plenty of sightseeing opportunities as well. More than two-thirds of the country’s surface is covered by mountains and the Swiss have figured out how to carry you to the top of the peaks. Swiss engineers have created a vast network of funiculars, cable cars, and cog railways to help you reach the summit. The trips aren’t cheap, but they’re well worth the price.
Polly and Patricia are full of energy and ready to see Switzerland. They already know the shops of Zurich’s Bahnhoffstrasse like the back of their hand and they have developed a passion for chocolate that exceeds my devotion to IRONMAN® racing. The great city churches, the Grossmünster and Fraumünster are like old friends; they have managed to see every stained glass window in town.
Zurich is a great city. There are enough private banks and brandname boutiques to service every rich person in the world, but we don’t qualify so it’s time to move on. Besides, this run-up to the race is not what they advertise in travel brochures. The ladies have had enough of hearing me moan and groan about the race, and they know that a real Swiss vacation doesn’t begin at 4:00 a.m. and end at 1:00 a.m. the following day. They are certain that there’s more to life than an IRONMAN Triathlon.
It’s interesting; everyone has different needs and desires, and different family dynamics. IRONMAN families tend to be either supporters or tolerators. Some athletes bring along spouses who worship at the altar of their success. It’s like their man has just whipped the world, his achievement has been their fulfillment. The IRONMAN Triathlon is the focus of the trip, they’re along in a supporting role.
Not my family. They are very happy for my achievement, but they know that open roads lie ahead, a real holiday for the entire family. As for me, I’ve finished the race and all my body parts still work, so my kind and generous personality rises to the surface. I’ve had enough of this monastic IRONMAN regimen, I’m ready to see Switzerland.
We are on the go early in the day headed from Zurich to the Appenzell. This is the traditional Swiss countryside in all its splendid glory. There are none of the big city trappings you find in Zurich or Geneva: no overpriced jewelry shops, no teeming throngs of tourists, no streetcars overloaded with commuters.
In this part of Switzerland, everything is pristine and perfect. It’s real life imitating a picture postcard. The mountains, the meadows, the contented cows, the colorfully painted houses, the traditional music (including great yodeling), the old-fashioned costumes, the locally made cheese and beer: Old Switzerland is alive and well in the twenty-first century in the Appenzell.
The Appenzell is also a great hiking area that attracts lots of tourists. Mt. Santis is nearby and is advertised as providing a “sweeping view of six countries.”
In my experience, views of distant countries or states from the top of a peak are sometimes a bit of a disappointment. You see one giant distant horizon where the sky and land merge but there are no convenient lines, like you have on a map, to separate one country from another. It’s a great view, but where does Liechtenstein end and Austria begin? You could be seeing three countries, or maybe five or six. It is a nice panorama, but it all looks the same.
Still, six at one time is hard to beat, so we decide to take the cable car to the summit. Unfortunately when we reach the top the whole area is fogged in. We can’t see six countries. We can barely see six feet in front of us. It’s a little better than being in a shower at home, but not by much. Still, I’m not complaining at all. This turns out to be our only bad mountaintop trip during our entire Swiss journey.
It is very pleasant to spend the day in the town of Appenzell. The local houses are distinctive with colorfully painted facades and attached barns. The small Church of St. Mauritius, barely mentioned in the guide books, has a beautiful Baroque interior. We enjoy a delicious lunch, sampling as many local specialties as possible, lingering on an outdoor terrace enjoying the view.
Appenzell is a small town, around 5,000 people, and after lunch we wander around the narrow streets, basking in the ambiance of the old town. We’re soon attracted by the sounds of a large crowd coming from the direction of the town center.
This is great, maybe we’ll get a chance to see the local Swiss citizenry, dressed in their quaint, embroidered costumes, meeting in open-air assembly. Or perhaps it’s a local crafts fair, our opportunity to see those ancient skills passed through many generations. Or it could even be a traditional Swiss music festival, something I know we would all enjoy.
The three of us follow the noise, round the corner and discover the unexpected. There it is, right smack in the middle of Old Switzerland—beach volleyball. The whole town square is covered with trucked in sand, the nets are up, the bleachers are full, the crowds are whooping it up.
The guys on the court, barefooted in swim trunks, look like they have been shipped in from Santa Monica. It’s what you’d least expect, Southern California comes to Switzerland. Travel is always full of surprises.
A good beach volleyball game is hard to top, but the next day the three of us head to the town of St. Gallen to visit the magnificent Baroque cathedral and the Abbey Library. These UNESCO world heritage sites are stunning, so rich, so ornate. Nothing is understated, the splendor jumps out immediately.
The library has over 150,000 books and documents, many over 1,000 years old. It’s in the rococo style, sort of a Baroque gone wild. I know just a bit about the Baroque, and I’m generously available to share it with my family. I know that my little bit of knowledge is a dangerous thing, but that doesn’t keep me from waxing eloquently about the features of the Baroque to Polly and Patricia. I share detail after detail, tossing in a few Latin words for good measure. I feel like I’m on a roll. I’m a born again tour guide, ready to proclaim the good news.
They are impressed with the church but they are not impressed with my unsolicited lecture services. Soon the ladies take to calling me “Professor Baroque.” “You’re right, Professor Baroque,” they say, “that is a beautiful ceiling.” “My goodness, what an ornate altar, Professor Baroque. Please tell us more.”
This isn’t the first or the last Baroque church we run across in Switzerland, so my title sticks for the entire trip. I may be a professor but I’ve got a bad group of students, inattentive, disrespectful, unappreciative. I deem them “The Incorrigibles.”
A few days later we’re in Lucerne, one of Switzerland’s loveliest cities. The city’s most famous landmark, the old covered Chapel Bridge, is found on every picture postcard of Lucerne. Much of the bridge burned in 1993, possibly from a careless cigarette, and had to be replaced. A real tragedy, this has to be one of the best reasons ever to not smoke: avoid burning down 600-year-old historic bridges.
A visit to the Old Town is followed by a walk through the Wine Market, a trip to the Lion Monument, and then a cruise on Lake Lucerne.
I won’t pass up my special field of cultural expertise, so I head to the Jesuit Church. It’s everything a student of Baroque could ever want. My girls want nothing to do with it, they’ve been Baroqued to death. While I look inside they go and hunt for more chocolate.
One day we take the cog railway to the top of Mount Pilatus. It’s the steepest railroad of this type in the world, something we are reminded of at least a dozen times on our trip.
This peak is named after Pontius Pilate, and his spirit is sai
d to still haunt the mountain. We’re vigilant, spirits and ghosts can ruin a holiday, but fortunately we run into nothing worse than a high school group from New Jersey.
Mount Pilatus is just the beginning of our Alpine adventure, a week split between Interlaken and Zermatt lets us see many of Switzerland’s most famous mountains. It’s a different type of holiday: no museums, no shopping, just the breathtaking Swiss scenery. Each day seems to surpass the previous day, we soon run out of adjectives to describe the experience.
It’s a short trip from Lucerne to Interlaken, the gateway to the Bernese Oberland. Every morning the three of us enjoy breakfast while gazing out at the magnificent view of the Eiger, the Mönch, and the Jungfrau. This is what makes a holiday a holiday. You are light years away from the stresses of ordinary life, each day begins on a positive note, a time for reflection and thanks.
One day we take a scenic ride to Mürren for lunch before ascending the Schilthorn; another day we have a pleasant hike to Grindelwald. The mountains actually soften everyone’s temperament: we all speak a little gentler, no one argues or yells, everyone looks on in awe. It’s a humbling experience.
Early one morning we board the Jungfrau railway for a trip to the Top of Europe. Our destination, the Jungfraujoch at 11,388 feet, is the highest railway station in Europe. Along the way, we see numerous signs and receive several verbal warnings, all carrying the same message: keep your arms inside the windows of the train. The route is narrow and tortuous, with many rocks, trees, and tunnel walls waiting to whack you when you least expect it. A danger only for the imprudent and the careless.
There are quite a few other Americans in our rail car, and we all talk about our trip, the things we love about Switzerland, what makes it a great country, what the U.S. could learn from the Swiss.
Against the Odds Page 10