 IronmanWisconsin: A test of character
The following is a
rush transcript from an interview with our Senior Athletics
correspondent, Bryce Macombe. This copy may not be in its final form
and may be updated.
Walter Jefferies (HHWT News): And now let's check in with our Senior
Leisure correspondent Bryce Macombe, who's been in Madison, WI for the
last 14 hours covering the Ironman triathlon there. Bryce, describe the
scene there for us.
[live video image – Bryce Macombe on street at night with
runners and state capitol in background]
Bryce Macombe (Madison, WI): Well Walt, I find the words to describe
this grueling event difficult to come by. Hour upon hour of
soul-crushing physical exertion with no conceivable end in sight. The
monumental effort expended constantly fighting the immense crowds just
to stay hydrated and obtain much needed nourishment. The psychological
toughness required to maintain a single-minded focus on the task before
you in the face of seemingly insurmountable obstacles. Walt, it is
truly inspirational just to be shoulder-to-shoulder with these people,
no, these heroes.
WJ: That's very moving, Bryce. I think many people feel the same way
about these exceptional athletes. The Ironman races always seem...
BM: [interrupting] Whoa, Walt! Athletes?! I'm
talkin' about the Ironman spectators. These fan-thletes
take part in the trifecta of grueling spectator events: Walking,
standing and driving aimlessly around the countryside.
WJ: [beat of stunned silence] Fan-thletes?
BM: That's right, Walt. The unsung heroes of sport-going spectators
everywhere, these Ironfans start their odyssey by
rising before dawn to fight each other as well as the racers themselves
for prime parking. Sometimes they circle the same city blocks half a
dozen times in the near-hopeless search for a spot, often exhibiting
parallel parking prowess that would stagger those
“fans” of other “sports” with
their cushy ten thousand-car, taxpayer funded lots.
If, against all odds, they successfully park within the allowed
time-limit their journey has just barely begun. A cruel slap in the
face awaits them as they make their way to the start of the swim venue.
For even the most eagle-eyed fan among them has nary a hope of
discerning individual athletes among the churn of surf and swimmers,
anonymously and androgynously sheathed, as they are, from head to toe.
And so, as the sun hangs low in the morning sky, an Ironfan's journey
begins, as it will end, with a near intolerable wait for a fleeting,
assuredly anticlimactic view of their raison d'être.
As if the wait alone is not mind-numbing enough, the incessant throb of
stadium-concert volume, training-mix-tape music isolates, by its shear
intensity, each Ironfan from their neighbor. This music thins the early
crowds sending the psychologically feeblest among them back to their
cars for mid-morning naps. Of those who persevere, after an
interminable stretch of squinting through thick throngs of begoggled
emergent swimmers, only the luckiest are rewarded with a brief and
uncertain view of their racer. For these Ironfans, soaked by the
slap-spray of hastily stripped wetsuits, the real race is about to
begin.
The next seven to nine hours will see the separation of Ironfans into
two formidable groups. The Waiters and the Wanderers. Waiters passively
resign themselves to a lonely workday-length stretch of tedium. Camped
along some god-forsaken stretch of rural route they can hope, at best,
to cheer on their chosen chaffing champion for mere seconds in an
otherwise eternal string of similarly-suited, sweaty strangers.
As dismal as this ratio of clapping-to-napping seems, the Wanderers, in
a Sisyphusian effort to maximize their cheering chances, run the
all-too-real risk of missing their racer entirely. Even for the
well-prepared Wanderers, armed with internet-capable cell phones,
course and county maps, and teams of drivers, the dangers are many.
Something as seemingly innocuous as an ill-timed lunch break can prove
just as disastrous as a brazen bumper-to-bumper course-crossing short
cut. And whether it's absent rural road signs, backseat drivers barking
patience-testing orders, or map-reading passengers tempting
“navigator-nausea” on the curvy country roads,
these and countless other scenarios can bring Wanderers to a screeching
halt in the middle of nowhere on their Icarus-like flight toward
Ironfandom.
By hour ten the Waiters and the Wanderers, equally worn down by
entirely different stresses, are all too often reduced to little more
than catatonic clapping even before the final leg begins.
WJ: That's all very interesting, Bryce, but what about the numerous
intimate human dramas being played out on the course for all to witness
as each athlete faces their own unique challenges of will and heart?
BM: [indignantly] You want human drama? You want tests of will and
heart? Try getting outdoor seating at a course-side café
along the marathon route, my friend! This is the white hot furnace in
which true Ironfans are forged! As grueling as the endurance aspects of
Ironman spectating can be they are no match for the full-contact,
cut-throat conflicts involved in the search for that elusive Eden of
paradise: nourishment and libation seated within sight of the course.
That siren's song can cause even hardcore Ironfans to miss entire hours
of competition reducing their already meager cheering chances to a
pittance.
In the final hours, after the sun has long ago dipped below the
opposite horizon and as the stream of walking athletes dwindles to a
trickle, the cold glow of streetlights illuminates the carnage: Entire
families torn asunder and cast across a city, left to reunite in the
darkness. Broken fans, sun-burnt and starved, collapsed curbside
staring up-course with a vacant gaze waiting for their Godot. One
cannot help to ask, “Was this arduous endeavor worth
it?” This question is one which every Ironfan must answer
anew every time their crazyass friends and relatives enter these races!
Walt?
WJ: Wow. Thanks for that powerful report, Bryce. It sounds like you've
been through quite an ordeal.
BM: Who? Me? Pfft! C'mon Walt. I've been holed up
in the air-conditioned satellite van all day watchin' football.
[looking beyond camera] Oh, I think that's the Chinese food. Gotta go
Walt! [leaving frame, shouting] Hey that better not be my Chow Fung!
WJ: Umm... Well... Alright Bryce. That was Bryce Macombe at the
Wisconsin Ironman race.
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