1994 World Championships
 Kopell op dem Bos, Belgium

March, 1994. The call came out of nowhere. There is an organization called Conseil International Sport Militaire (CISM) that is the military version of the Olympics. I received a call from the United States Committee and was asked to be part of the triathlon team representing the United States. I was stunned.

For the United States, this wasn't a big deal. Only Active and Reserve military types were eligible and there wasn't a long list of professional triathletes in the US military. But most other European nations, at that time, had compulsory military service so every single guy in the nation was technically a Reservist. That meant European nations could put whoever they wanted on their team. I'd done several World Cup triathlons by then, so I'd competed against some of the top European guys, but the European countries were really serious about the CISM race so practically every European team had it's own handful of Pro, Olympic, and World Cup talent. The European team rosters read like a Who's Who list from Triathlon Magazine. I was honored to be invited, but with so many pros and top amateurs at a single race, I was going to get my ass kicked.

 The timing was also a little rough. When the phone rang I was still coming back from blowing a knee in a snowboarding crash a couple months prior.

By the time we got to August, I'd been fully recovered from the snowboarding crash for months, and I'd been training like a maniac. I was a triathlon early adopter, having started in 1985 after running and then cycling intercollegiate. I'd consistently trained hard, averaging two workouts/day, for most of the years since. With no competitive swimming background, my swimming that sucked, but my cycling and running were strong.

Fresh from taking it easy for a couple months because of the snowboarding injury, I'd been uncharacteristically fresh once I was able to train hard again. All the sudden, I seemed to have huge reserves of strength. I was training really hard and allowing only a few easy days. Surprisingly, I seemed to have no problem recovering in time for another hard day. At the same time, the very high training load dropped my weight unusually low.

The American team for the World Champs. I'm at far right. That's Mike Garcia, 2nd from right. The Air Force guy was the bird colonel that ran US Military Sports out of his WA DC office. Really a bummer that I don't remember the rest of their names.

August, 1994. Once we arrived at the Belgian town of Kopell op dem Bos, we received a schedule for the week. The Belgians had organized official functions, parades, banquets, and festivals in each of the towns involved in the race. After these banquets and fests, the Belgians would invite us out for beer, chow, etc. I didn’t buy a beer all week. The first time someone asked me for an autograph, I almost burst out laughing. All the times after that, however, I tried to behave appropriately gracious and signed whatever they wanted me to sign.

The Belgian sports officials treated us like kings. However, instead of plush hotels, everyone stayed on a Belgian Army base that was pretty austere. The cool part was that one could walk down the halls and go see what was up with the Italians, Russians, Czechs, Aussies, or what-have-you. Or you could go cheer up the French by politely saying "bon jour" so they could be mean to you.  At breakfast I learned what the Belgian Army eats and it would seem that they are hardier than they look. With the fruit and yoghurt was a tasteless gruel, with a disturbing gritty consistency. Imagine your nose is plugged up so you've lost most of your sense of taste. Now go eat a spoonful of wet-sloppy mud, and note how your teeth can't handle the grit. That's breakfast in the Belgian Army.

Each day we were taken to a different parade or celebration in a different Belgian town. I took this pic during one of the parades.

All kidding aside, the week of pageantry and ceremonial activities associated with this world championship event were so terrific and outside of my experience that they were unforgettable.

One of the guys, that I hung around during the pre-race festivities, was Thomas Hellriegel. Nicknamed "Hell on Wheels", at the time he was one of the top triathletes in the world. In fact, in the three years that followed, he won 1st or 2nd in the Ironman World Champs. His Ironman bike course record would stand for 11 years. In the roughly one hour ride segment, I was determined to lose only two minutes against the strongest cyclist in the triathlon world. Thomas was a good example of the caliber of the European teams.

The night before the race I packed my race-day gear and made one last check that my bike, the very unstable, difficult to ride, gossamer light, and incredibly fast Time Machine (a la HG Wells), was ready to go. Dedicated time trial bikes were in their infancy back then, but I had one, and it was fast as hell. My US National Triathlon Team racing kit and sweats, that I was very proud of, were packed up. My swimming, cycling, and running gear was all ready to go, as were my pre-event, during, and post-event fluids and snacks. Then, far too wide awake to yet sleep, I crawled into the narrow Belgian Army bunk, in between rough cotton sheets and under a too thin wool banky.

Morning was a long time coming. I grabbed some yoghurt from the chow hall, and put my bike on to the US team's trailer. Key teammate Mike Garcia was there also, but he wasn't radiating his usual quiet good humor. I watched him sluggishly rack his bike and said "dude, you ok?" Mike was fast. I wouldn't have agreed that he was a faster at triathlon than me, but he was certainly a faster swimmer. We'd been battling against each other in triathlon for two years, and it always came down to how much time I could pull back from him in the ride. He was a good dude, but with him in Belgium and me in distant Bavaria, we never actually hung out and trained with each other. He was a soft-spoken, very likeable guy, and a fierce competitor. Sometimes I beat him, and sometimes I didn't. Lately, we'd traded victories. He beat me at the '94 US Military Triathlon Champs because the race course volunteers were a disaster, and I'd beaten him in the '94 US Military Cycling Champs (Time Trial), because I kick ass on a bike. Note that my loss comes with an excuse but my victory I claim as all me.

Done racking his bike on the US team's bike trailer, Mike turned to me with drooping shoulders and radiating misery. He said, "I'm sick. I'm not sure that I can race." I said "Dude, oh no." This was terrible news. It was terrible because Mike was such a good guy and he'd worked his ass off, and it was also terrible for the American team. Each team was allowed seven male and seven female competitors, of which, only the first five would score. In a perfect world, a team would have five strong competitors, but on our team we had me and Mike, and then a slower group of genuinely likable guys that I'd only come to know this\\e past week. In order for the team to have any prayer of doing well, we needed both me and Mike at the top of our game. But now we'd just lost Mike. The American team was screwed.

Fast forward some years later and I noticed in the late 1990's that Mike, and his wife Gail Lawrence, were still high in the world triathlon rankings. Then we all became old.

In the US team van, pulling the big trailer of bikes, we drove to the race site. As we neared the transition site we had to slow to a crawl to move through the already gathering crowds. As usual, our race was being run inside of another World Cup triathlon, but I'd done those before and this crowd was not usual. There seemed to be millions of people. I had never seen anything like it.

As is usual to reduce crowding, the race start was organized into separate start groups. Each start group would get into the water and a gun would mark their start. Then 5min would be spent getting the next start-group into the water. The ~300 male and ~50 female competitors in the Military World Championships all started in one group. We were in a wide canal of the especially gross water. I'm generally quick to roll my eyes at complaints that this or that is "gross." But the shipping canal, there in the middle of town, deserved special mention.

Figuring that most everyone was a faster swimmer than me, I moved towards the rear of the start group. If I started farther forward, I'd just get banged around by people going around or over me. Better to start towards the rear, miss the frenzy, and obsess over good technique that would mean efficient decent speed. Swimming is like ballet in that it's mostly technique. My technique was not good, but if I was in a wrestling match, it's certainly worse.

Hanging out with some of the Russian team prior to the race. In one of my never-ending attempts to amuse myself, while treading water in the awful canal waiting for the starting gun, I kissed the blond.

Prior to the gun, I dog-paddled over to a Russian girl that I'd been hanging around with the past week, and kissed her for luck. At the barracks and at the ceremonial functions, I'd been hanging around with the foreign teams a lot, but especially the Russians. The Russian competitors weren't "real" military per say. The Russian Army ran much of their elite sports programs back then, so most of their top athletes could be put into a uniform at short notice. In 1994, the Berlin Wall had only been down for a couple years. It seemed like only weeks prior that the Russians were called the Soviets, the greatest threat to freedom in the world, and they'd had a million guys poised to attack Western Europe. I'd spent the previous 12 years training to shoot these bastards as they charged West and tried to destroy the Western Democracies. It seemed now hilarious to me, to be eating and drinking with them, trying to tell each other hilarious stories despite the language barrier, and exchanging gifts.

She wasn't cute really, but she was Russian, so I counted coup. She had spent time on one of Russia's national swim teams and so was really fast in the water. She probably finished the one mile swim a week before I did. We kept in touch for years afterwards. Being Russian, she was dirt poor, so I routinely sent her bicycle parts triathlon-wear, etc. She sent me a full Russian cycling team kit that I wore so many times that I finally wore it out.

Back to the swim. To get out of the water we had to stumble up a steep concrete ramp that had been covered with some carpeting. Once I got up the ramp, I started running, clumsily at first, as my legs got used to the new idea. I also reached back for the wetsuit's zipper and tugged it down. Then, still running as fast as I could for the transition area, I got my arms out of the wetsuit.

My initial impression was shock at noise level and the huge crowd. Barriers made a path through the crowd so, on autopilot, I just kept running. I'd already checked out how precisely to get to "my location" in the large and chaotic transition area, so I went right for my gear without hesitation. I then I wriggled out of my wetsuit, donned my glasses and helmet, grabbed The Time Machine and ran for the transition area's mount point. As I crossed the line, I leaped up on to the bike, and as it coasted, the toes on my right foot nimbly flipped over my already-clipped-in bike shoes and popped into the shoe. I then did the same with the left foot, then reached down and gave each shoe's big velcro strap a tug. Feet now securely fastened in place, I leaped up off of the saddle and accelerated hard.

I've come out of the water and am about to head out for the ride. Transition area, 1994 Triathlon Military World Champs.

It was time for me to reel the competition back in. I was now on my bike--my element.  It was time to turn into a raving axe-murder maniac and ride with such insane freaking intensity that'd we'd blow by people like they were standing still.  So riding that unstable rocket like a berserker, sucking wind like a jet turbine, and frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog, I started reeling in folks immediately. 

The course was pretty flat so it was very fast. Because it was a big race, there were a lot of competitors on the course. But the Belgian towns had completely closed off traffic so we had both sides of the road for much of the race. Riding very hard, I was passing a lot of competitors. Maybe 3/4 of the riders seemed to be wearing unfamiliar race-kit so they were there for the World Cup race. But about 1/4 of the riders were wearing kit in national colors, so I could see that I was making a lot of important passes on our direct competition.

I was shocked to see that much of the 25mile ride-course had spectators.

About 1/3 of the way through the ride, passing several people each minute, I came upon a Swedish team member, as indicated by the Swedish colors on his kit. I was suddenly seized by juvenile stupidity and as I drew abreast with him I hollered “Hey Sweden”...He looked over....and I wiggled my tongue out at him and said ”NYAAAAH”.  And then I popped the nitrous and roared off after the next cyclist.

After showing my ass with the Swede, I realized that I was losing some of the insane axe-murder intensity that I relied upon to maintain the effort level. I thought to myself, "I have to quit dicking around. I'm here representing the United States of America. This is the greatest competitive honor I've ever had. I need to kick ass and take names." So I regained my maniacal focus and pushed the intensity level back up. 

I had only one close call during the ride. I was flying down a canal road, approach a bridge over the canal at full-tilt. Going over the bridge required  a 90deg turn and I was determined to make it without hardly slowing down. I moved to the far side of the road, set up, looked far forward and leaned hard over. But as I headed for the apex of the turn, the geometry of the turn's sight-line suddenly exposed to view hay bales at turn exit. The huge intensity I was maintaining to keep up the effort level and the hard, careful, effort to lean the bike way over for the turn suddenly became a panic as I realized I was about to crash. The inside pedal was already high so I just wrenched the bike hard-over to what seemed almost horizontal. I felt the bike starting to slide out from under me but the tires pretty much held on. Then I was through. Jesus Christ that was close.

For those cycling fans, Eddie Merckx waved to us as we rode by his house. To me it was just some guy standing out in his yard waving to us, but I passed a guy immediately after that and, in a funny accent, he told me "that was Eddie Merckx that we just passed." Kissing the Russian girl at World Champs race start was cool, but an admiring Eddy Merckx waving at Scott Gress trumps that easily. Or am I taking that too personally?

 As we neared the end of the ride, the crowds became even larger. A mile out from the transition the crowds were two deep. In the last 400 meters they became 6-8 deep. Holy shit! It was amazing to hear all of the yelling and cheering. 

I'm nearing the transition area to dump the bike and start the run. The crowds are huge and I'm still passing people constantly. Pic was taken by Mike Garcia's wife, Gail Lawrence, a successful pro triathlete in her own right. I don't know who the ambulance is going for. Maybe someone hit those hay bales. Kopell op dem Bos, Belgium, August 1994.

The ride seemed to end quickly. As I approached the transition area, I pulled my feet out of my cycling shoes. Then as I approached the dismount point line, I vaulted off of The Time Machine and kept running. I headed for my gear, racked the bike, dumped my helmet and glasses, slipped on my running shoes and yanked the fastener, then headed out for the run.

As soon as I leaped off of the bike, the heat hit me. "Dang," I thought, "it's getting darn hot."

We were all suffering from the heat, but I seemed to have my own problem in that my gut started getting angry about the fluids I took during the ride. This was a problem that took me 20 years to beat. If the race was hot, I needed fluids. Racing in hot weather, one can go thru fluids incredibly fast. But my stomach had a hard time processing fluids during the intense exertion of the race. Therefore I always had to make an estimate of how little fluids I could possibly get away with, and those fluids had to be taken on in the first minutes of the ride.

By the halfway point of the 10km run, I was in real trouble. I'd ridden pretty darn hard so the run was not blazing fast, but up until the halfway point of the run I was still passing people. After the halfway point, people were pretty spread out, and everyone was suffering. Only one person had passed me in the run and no one else seemed to be coming up behind. My weak swim, however, necessitated that I keep passing people, and that was no longer happening. Folks were too spread out and my gut was killing me. .

In the last mile, when everyone is really suffering in a triathlon, I usually had a strong surge that would pick up more people. But this time it wasn't happening. My cramped up guts had so screwed up my diaphragm that I was only able to take in shallow little gulps of air. I could take a couple minutes of pain, if need be, but I had to be able to breath. So I schemed up a new plan. Kick just the last 400meters, breathing or no breathing. In high school and college track, I called the last lap, the "gut lap." You made it though on shear guts. A person could stand anything for 400meters, you just had to want it badly enough. Breathing? I figured heck, I could just breath later.

As the finish neared, everyone was starting to pay attention to the folks behind them to identify threats. It was time for psy-war. When the guys up ahead would look back, I’d look as ragged as I felt and just generally no more threatening than, say Bambi. But, in reality, I was sneaking up a closer and closer.  There is a distance where a runner perceives someone coming up from behind to be a threat. As you get closer to that finish, the threat distance gets shorter. If you're 800 meters from the finish, a guy 50 meters back is a threat. But if you're 100 meters from the finish, the guy is only a threat when he's about 15 meters back.  I had to stay just short of the threat distance. If I got to close to the scattered group in front of me, then the trail guy would pick up the pace and pull up to the guy in front of them. The whole group would do that and suddenly they'd all be surging to the finish and I'd be screwed. I needed to take them all by surprise.

At 500m out I had sneaked up within 70m.  The guys up there were spaced about 10m apart.  At 350m I closed up to within 40m of the trail guy, and I got ready to give it everything I had.  Ramming speed.  I had to pass with such violence that they wouldn’t even think to challenge. It had to be a surprise attack that blew them away before they even saw it develop.  Easy enough for the first guy, but that third guy was gonna be a problem. He’d sense what was happening behind him.

I bolted forward. Up on my toes, driving with my arms for everything I was worth. I was completely thrashed. My gut was so cramped up that I couldn't breathe. My inability to take in enough fluids meant that my blood volume was low. My legs were so dead that my running was spastic.
fore I caught up to the first guy. This was critical because he had time to accelerate with me if he chose, and I wanted him to choose not to. I got the first guy and immediately shifted focus to the next guy. I could see that he'd not realized the threat, so I tried to retain surprise by quieting down my footfalls. "GO GO GO GO, Got him!", my mind screamed. With 100m left, I was moving up on the last guy, but I was losing fine control of my limbs. This last guy became aware of what was happening and he surged into a sprint. We headed for the finish sprinting neck to neck. The crowd was losing it's mind. People were umping up and down screaming. Their volume level was a force all by itself. Suddenly the other guy's coordination dissolved and he stumbled back, outside of my peripheral vision. And I was through the gate.

The race went ok. I'd lost some focus on the bike and the run had been a problem, but I'd certainly had worse days. Mike getting sick was an unfortunate loss for the team, but shit happens. I finished 34th. Hell on Wheels' bike split was 3min faster than my 55min. I was good with that. It was the swim that was always my nemesis.