The Feather in my Whiskers/Final Thoughts pre-Placid

William Nack wrote the definitive eulogy for the legendary thoroughbred Secretariat for Sports Illustrated in a story called Pure Heart. Aside from being a phenomenal piece of writing, the headline came from the fact that, upon the autopsy, we learned that Secretariat had a much larger heart than the average racehorse, which the doctor figured enabled the horse to do what he did.

That's not why I bring it up, though that massive heart holds scores of parables for endurance athletes. I bring it up for an anecdote mentioned in the story, buried on the seventh page.

One afternoon I was folded in a chair outside the colt's stall when Secretariat came to the door shaking his head and stretching his neck, curling his upper lip like a camel does. "What's botherin' you, Red?" Sweat asked. The groom stepped forward, plucked something off the colt's whiskers and blew it in the air. "Just a pigeon feather itchin' him," said Sweat. 

I have a feather in my whiskers as well, and equally insignificant if I can think of it that way. It's a pin, millimeters wide and less than an inch long. It holds a watch band to the watch, and apparently Timex no longer makes them up to standard. After my second Ironman watch gave up the ghost last week after seven years, three Ironmans, three marathons and more miles than I can count, I bought a new one at REI in Fort Collins, thanks in part to my dividend. I got it home and put it on; this was last Thursday. On Friday, I took it off to hit the shower and the band popped out. I don't feel I put any more torque than normal on the band but that pin just popped. I spent most of the afternoon trying to put it back together and I just didn't have a tool fine enough to get it there. Saturday, I took it to a jeweler, who kindly put the band back in place for no charge. However, he handed me the watch and threw his hands up a little.

"It's plastic so I can't promise the band will stay on," he said. "I heard the pin snap in there but it's really flimsy."

Indeed, as I write this I wear the one I got during my senior year in high school. The labels have faded from the buttons on the face and the beep no longer works, but it keeps time and counts down. So if any 38-year-old was ever in a position to say "they don't make 'em like the used to," it's me.

That pin is the only thing keeping me from totally dialing in mentally. The main function of a timepiece in Ironman is to count down the 10 minutes between blasts of fluids and protect the pale racing stripe around my wrist. Otherwise, I can ballpark my elapsed time. And didn't I note a couple weeks ago the liberation of racing without a chronograph ticking away the minutes?

It's frustrating because I feel better about this training process than for any of the previous five Ironmans I've done. I've fueled myself well, I'll get to the line healthy and rested (notwithstanding the time of this post) and I'm excited to skip away from work at a crucial time to test myself against the day. And this little pin threatens to take down everything I've built.

But I won't let it. I'm bringing all three watches with me, and after I give the guy at the Timex booth an earful about his shoddy product, I'll decide which one gets the nod on Sunday. After all, it would be a training process without a a feather in my whiskers that I have to brush out of there myself.