The time of departure was set for noon. We knew we'd be late. Three duathletes never move on schedule. What we didn't know was that Dennis was, for most of the morning, jumping through a succession of ever-higher hoops thrown up by his credit card company. The company had failed repeatedly to change his address in their records, and the plane tickets he was trying to order seemed further and further out of reach.

As we gassed up Scott's Jeep at the Sheetz, Dennis tried once more to negotiate reservations over the phone. Failure, again. And judging by the force with which his crumpled computer paper printout struck my head, I guessed that the conversation had been, at best, unpleasant. We finally rolled onto Route 322, heading west, at 2:15.

Somewhere along the desolate stretch of the Pennsylvania Turnpike between Route 220 and Pittsburgh, we came to two realizations. First, traffic was slowing in the westbound lanes ahead of us, which meant more delays. Second, none of us had seen a car in the eastbound lanes for five minutes.

From the time we hit the slowdown until we saw the towering plume of black smoke in the distance, we had traveled maybe five miles. A mile farther and we saw the source of both the smoke and the traffic on our side of the road.

At the side of the highway, local fire police stood guard over the funeral pyre of a molten mass that was once a car. We could feel the heat of the fire even through the windows of the Jeep. I glanced back at the trunk rack, expecting the egg-crate foam around our bikes to be aflame. No signs of melting appeared.

Traffic on our side of the road cleared as soon as we'd left the rubberneck zone around the fire. The eastbound lanes, however, remained vacant. We had seen no cars there for twenty minutes. Suddenly, several police cars, lights and sirens engaged, blew past in the open lanes. The roadway separated, with a hillside eclipsing our view of the eastbound lanes. Around the hill lay some unseen catastrophe, and an unhappy impromptu parking lot had formed.

Vehicles of every description had queued up for no less than five miles. Their drivers had long since turned off their engines and climbed out, scratching their heads at the phantom source of their inertia. Against a backdrop of forested mountains, hundreds of motorists had escaped into the warm August afternoon. Several tie-dye-clad youths played hackey-sack, and dozens of people in business suits stared at their watches and screamed at their cell phones. One gentleman, who happened to be hauling a floral-pattern sofa in his pickup, had removed his shirt and was, amid the chaos, napping peacefully on the couch. We sped by the poor bastards at 70 miles per hour.

Past the roadside spectacles, our thoughts turned to our grumbling stomachs. The pretzel supply had proved insufficient. Maybe we should stop for food.

Well, we thought, since we've pre-registered for the race, we don't have to worry about getting to the registration by 8. We'll pick up our packets tomorrow.

"Good thing, too, 'cause there's no race-day registration."

"There's not?"

Scott and I turned to Dennis. The gas pedal went down. We would not be stopping for supper.

We arrived in the bucolic splendor surrounding Millersport, Ohio, at 7:45. On the third try, we found the proper street to the race site, where Dennis was, I think, the last person to register for the event.

Scott had driven non-stop for more than five hours. We were all hungry. So, we drove into the major metropolis that is Millersport. A solitary pizza restaurant was open. We hen drove out of the major metropolis that is Millersport, backtracking toward the interstate in search of food. The race was 11 hours away.

In the neighboring town of Thornville, the pre-race pasta dinner had been organized at the local high school. We pulled into the parking lot almost an hour after the dinner was scheduled to close. Dennis ran in to see if there was anything left.

Apparently, very few people in search of the pasta had spotted the two-square-foot sign along the highway. Many pounds of cooked spaghetti teetered minutes from oblivion.

"They'll let us in," yelled Dennis. I don't recall actually exiting the Jeep; the motion was too fast.

"Serendipity!"

Inside, we were treated to the epitome of Midwestern hospitality. They led us to the cafeteria, and amid murals depicting frolicking fruit, we stuffed ourselves royally.

Dusk had descended by the time we ambled out to the Jeep. We drove back to the major metropolis that is Millersport, investigating possible encampments. Pitching our tents right by the race site seemed convenient, but we'd surely be asked to move far too early in the morning.

There were diesel-powered lights and some stirrings of human activity at the Lion's Club Fairgrounds, so we drove in. Parking at the fairgrounds on race morning would be five dollars, so how much would it cost if we pulled in at 9 p.m.? To station the Jeep by several large hay bales, which would then shield our tents from traffic, was still only five dollars. Serendipity, this time, came in the person of a jolly local Lion clutching his can of beer in its foam cozy.

"Yeah, we didn't know what to expect last year. That's the first year we had this race out here." He chuckled. He was not on his first beer of the evening.

"We have a festival every year. That's why we got them lights." In his peculiar dialect, the word "festival," which he seemed rather to fancy, was pronounced "festibal."

"Do they have these things all over?"

We assured him that they do.

The Lion wished us good night, and I wondered if he'd be sober in four hours when he returned to direct parking.

We erected our tents surprisingly quickly. Scott and I shared his larger tent, and Dennis moved into his own backpacking tent.

"Scott, our heads are down hill. The blood is rushing to my face."

"All right, we'll turn."

"You two need some help over there?"

"No, just rearranging."

"Oh, is that what they call it these days?"

"Yes. Feel free to join us, wanker."

Dennis declined our generous offer, and we fell to sleep. In the morning, we awoke to the sound of travel alarm clocks and the beams of car headlights.

"Morning, Dennis."

From Dennis came an incoherent grumbling, then softly but plainly: "I hate my life."

In a great confusion of race wheels, water bottles and shoes, our bikes took shape and we made a groggy but determined double-time march to the race site. The walk was about a third of a mile.

We set up our transition stuff, and slathered on sunscreen and Vaseline. We hurried up and waited for the port-a-johns. At the starter's gun there was little real speed. We'd be out there a long time.

A certain competitor in the elite division (who shall remain nameless here) gracefully wound up and smacked a road sign to great effect and much applause from his fellow racers.

I attempted to prompt Dennis and Scott to respond to "We Are" cheers, and on the third try they managed a weak "Penn State."

About 75 hilly and seemingly interminable miles later, I stumbled over the finish tape on the verge of hallucination. Dennis ran in smoothly about ten minutes later. I had by then downed a half-gallon of water and Gatorade from paper cups. Scott came in looking surprisingly strong for having "hit a wall" late in the bike.

An older competitor, laboring in the thick humidity, trotted to the finish mumbling, "I begged that bastard cop to shoot me." He'd even offered to pay for the bullet to be put out of his misery along the course.

Each of us received his complimentary massage, despite the considerable effort needed to climb atop the tables. We collected our awards, and supported ourselves with our bikes back to the Jeep, repeating what Dennis had so eloquently uttered that morning: "I hate my life."

Somewhere along the interstate in Eastern Ohio, we hobbled into a family restaurant. We settled our aching frames into our chairs, reeking of sunscreen and admiring the many photos of ex-presidents on the walls. I liked Ike, but I liked my bowl of chili a lot more.

The Jeep smelled vaguely like a ferret cage, and our belongings were strewn about its cabin with total disregard to order. I remember little of returning home, save for a brief stop in the major metropolis that is Clarion, Pa., for gasoline. Despite PennDot's insidious campaign to renumber the interstate exits in our absence, we found our way home.

As Dennis pulled some things from the Jeep, I asked, "Why do we do this again?"

"It's for the money, right?"

At least it makes a good story.

###

by Sparky Ion, September 2001