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2002 1st Team Formed Team Meeting on Sunday, March 17, 2002 at Kit's place. 2002 Team Stats

Cross Country Ski, by Kit Vonnegut

Gasp, pant, puff, whew! The four miles of torture cruelly masquerading as a cross country ski race course nearly killed me, but I made it with only a couple of near-death experiences, and I achieved my goal: To be able to say I had done it. Plus I got a cool t-shirt. Although my race time was pitifully slow, I wasn’t actually the last person to cross the line there were three people behind me! My son Sean must have thought I had been buried in a snow bank and would never get to the finish line to hand him the wristband. Afterwards, as I skated over to a quiet corner to catch my breath I remembered the words of a friend who said he’d rather eat broken glass than do the XC ski leg again! I understood.  ^top

Downhill Ski, by Sean Vonnegut

Crouched at the starting gate, I anxiously awaited the handoff from my father. As he passed off the wristband, everything went into slow motion. This was mainly because the next 30 minutes consisted of walking uphill in ski boots with skis digging into my shoulders. As I reached the top, I stepped into my skis and headed for the quick downhill course. As soon as I hit the steep downgrade, I yelled banzai! and sped toward the finish, only to be impeded by a cross-country skier who managed to block the fast part of the course. He wished me luck, I muttered obscenities under my breath, and I was back on my way. As I approached the finish line, the deafening roar of the 250,000+ spectators energized me enough to make the handoff. 

Running, by Diana Robinson

A familiar face on an incoming downhill skier it’s Sean okay, now it’s my turn. Grabbing the sweat band, I turn, run out the of the snow and begin my descent down the mountain. Passing the line of cars waiting for their turn down the mountain, I am showered with encouraging cheers. A great way to start eight miles of torture I think to myself and give them all a smile. As I run down the twisting and winding road I find myself completely alone. Five or six cars pass me about every 15 minutes or so, but I am the only runner. In a normal road race I would find this very disconcerting, but the beautiful view I am allowed on top of the mountain makes up for the fact that I have nobody to chase. In mile seven I find three other runners and am able to pass each of them. Then finally the finish! The last 1/4-1/2 mile is flat and uphill and I know that the smile on my face has changed to a look of concentration (or perhaps I should say PAIN). I am happy to see Paul, the road biker, and pass him the very sweaty band and get him on his way. Ahhh, such a fun race, which I know from past experience will be followed by three days of pain so bad I will have to grab the toilet seat on the way down. WHY do I like this so much I wonder? Perhaps I will try to figure that out next year!  ^top

Road Bike, by Paul Leeson (In Green Shirt)

I am going to quit...no I can’t quit. I’m going to quit...no I can’t quit. I had taken a few 15-mile trips in preparation for the race. I had pushed myself hard on those trips and when the race came around I was ready...for the first 15 miles. By the 25th mile I was in agony and wasn’t sure how I was going to pedal for 11 more miles. I started thinking things like: Maybe I could lie down on the grass and take a quick nap. Then reality would set in, No, my team is counting on me. Besides how embarrassing would it be for people to see me lying in the grass? They would probably send an ambulance. Or worse, take my picture and put it in the paper...no, I can’t stop. All in all the whole day was really great fun. I think we had a great team (I am speaking about character here more than athletic ability) and I feel privileged to have been a member.

Canoe, by Mel Monkelis

The canoe leg was run by a team of Mel Monkelis and Jim O'Shersky. We were "married" on the river for our 2:50 hours, and exhausted. We were in an old Coleman canoe with a flat bottom, and that hurt us a bit on our time. The wind became our third "paddler" but usually pushing us in the wrong direction. At the halfway point, we were 1:10 into the race, and thought we would make an excellent finish. 

The second part of the river is much wider and slower. The ol’ Coleman has already been sold (I just heard that the club member who bought it has already been

 "dunked" into the lake when getting into it with his wife!), and plans are being made for next year's canoe leg with a "new" canoe with a good keel! Also, a key piece of equipment will be a water sack that straps to one's back with a hose running into your mouth. Go Mount Baker "Hiking" Club Team!!  ^top

Mountain Bike, by Bruce Vanderpool

I figured out Waiting for Godot, except I was waiting for 273. And it was a canoe. I watched for hours as cyclists would slip away. The number of cyclists left behind dwindled. We were like extras on the Night of the Living Dead. We waited with blank stares, wondering. As the sand in the hourglass was about to expire the canoe appeared on shore. Sweaty, tired, disheveled men carry the canoe out of the water. You could tell they wanted to curse, but they were too tired. Lending a hand we trudged up the hill in a mild trot. Across the line the wristband was passed. Out of breath I ride. No one can adequately describe the testicular torture of a mountain bike seat on an old dike road and I was 15 minutes too late.

Kayak, by Bud Hardwick (in black cap)

The day began like a typical day. Up before dawn, a few hours of office work, farm chores. Marjan and Frank picked me up and we soon settled into a peaceful wait on the lawn at Squalicum. The cell-phone confirmed our team’s slow but steady progress. I settled into a pleasant afternoon nap. After 3 o’clock the screaming and shouting from nearly continuous launchings made it impossible not to be excited, so I geared up for the race. At the 5 o’clock cut-off they announced away all boats. I sprinted to my kayak and dragged it to the top of the gangway so I wouldn’t be stuck far back in the mob. One boat passed me at the start and I foolishly determined that no other would. Goaded on by this desire I had to constantly struggle against excitement, and concentrate on rhythm and technique. My short stubby kayak plugged its bow into every third wave and I couldn’t afford any mistakes. My strategy was simple paddle hard, paddle straight and don’t stop. With the flashing speed of a slug, I gained on the boats ahead of me. One by one they fell to my painfully slow but unrelenting progress. A near sit-down in the water at the beach preceded my triumphant sprint to the finish. The sudden flash of red in my face was our club pennant, thrown by Marjan. I caught it without a pause and made the final leap to the bell rope to signal my end. Exhausted, I slumped to the side while an attendant tore the tag off my race bib. Polly led our club’s cheering section and we eventually met up with everyone for pizza and beverages at Mel’s. The next day it rained a good day to be home.  ^top

A NOTE OF THANKS by Bud Hardwick
I know all team members want to join with me in thanking the helpers and alternates for making this, our second re-entry into our race such a success - we finished! Foremost, thanks to Kit and Bernice, who managed the entire process, supplied a meeting place, training site, two sons as race participants and even breakfast at the final pre-race meeting. Thanks to alternates, and to Janet Salo for her inspiration regarding training. My special thanks to Marjan and Frank for supporting me by shuttling boats, gear and the club pennant. 

ADDITIONAL SKI to SEA THANKS
The race, and all the preparations for it were truly a team effort. All have been thanked but two: Sandi Hughes and Wayne Stephenson, although not Club members, were nevertheless interested in our team’s success. Thanks to both for the generous loan of their cell phones, without which our communication links would have been impossible.  ^top