2. The Countdown

Exactly 13 years since our Temple sealing - June 26 - has become the longest day in my life.
    
Scott and I woke up at 4:30. Kids and Mom were still asleep. We quickly and quietly got ready, packed Scott's stuff and by 5 am were walking down the street towards the Promenade. It was still dark. Scott does not talk much, he is either nervous, or he is meditating, or still sleeping. I know I am worried. But I am mostly concerned about the logistics of things. Will I be able to take pictures of him during the transitions? Will we find each other after the race? Will kids behave and will we have any fun that day while waiting?

As soon as we came around the cliff and got a good view of the Promenade des Anglais, I got a better idea of the scale of this event. There must have been thousands of people all gathered up at the break of dawn on the banks of sleeping Mediterranian. Music blairing, causing blood run faster through our veines, beautiful fit people were definetely the center of attention. I admired their willpower and strength, but mostly, of course, I admired my husband's willpower and strength. If I only knew what a dangerous game these Ironmen are getting themselves into. . .

Just by the way, I've noticed the boats patroling the waters of the Plage du Centenaire, stretches prepared on the beach, ambulances parked on the street, and medical boothes set up along Promenade. I felt chills going down my back. I already felt bad for those less fortunate who would have to be fished out of the water, or break their bones crashing off the bike, or have an iv to rehydrate them in the shade of a first aid station. But certainly they'll all be ok. The worst pain for them would probably be not finishing the race. I live with an athlete, I know the drive behind all of this "fun".

I was confident though that this misfortune would pass Scott by. He would paddle hard through his 2.4 mi. swim, breeze 112 mi. on his bike, and run (something I was the least worried about) all the 26.2 mi. of his marathon. Really, he trained good. 3 hours every morning and about the same at lunch or afternoon. In fact, the most challenging part of the race was supposed to be the swim. So, I decided I'd stay to make sure he'd get out of the water and get on his bike.

He is in his wetsuit and after my clumsy encouraging words and a good-bye, we are separated. He joins his fellow athletes, and I walk up and down trying to find a spot betwixt the spectators glued to the railing. I squeeze in and finally am a part of the fan club, trying to spot a familiar wetsuit. It's not possible really, all the wetsuits are black, all the heads are wearing blue swimhats.

The French race announcer/dj is dancing on the platform, singing along to "tonight's gonna be a good night", yelling in French, then English, then French again. At some point he makes all athletes raise their arms, they all start to dance, and the feeling is great. I am proud of these people and root for their success. It's broad daylight, 7 am. The huge mass of swimmers enters the water, and the Ironman Race begins.