The Race I Disqualified Myself

 

White Mountains Triathlon — June 16, 2013

Somebody asked me about this race on a thread the other day, and I realized something: in all the years I wrote race reports on this blog, I never wrote this one.

Thirteen years later, here it is.

The Setup

June 16, 2013. White Mountains Triathlon in Franconia, New Hampshire. A half Ironman — 1.2 miles of swimming, 56 miles of biking, and a 13.1-mile run to wrap it up.

I was in the best shape of my life.

Across 15 years of racing triathlon, I was never fitter than I was that summer. Everything was pointed at Ironman Lake Placid, about a month later, where I was planning to have the best full Ironman of my career. White Mountains was supposed to be the tune-up. A hard training day. A test.

It turned out to be a test, all right. Just not the one I expected.

Race Morning

I was setting up in transition when I looked up and saw my parents walking toward me.

That was an hour-and-a-half drive from home, which meant they left around 5 AM to watch their grown son race in New Hampshire. That'll give a guy a boost. I was feeling good before I saw them. I felt even better after.

We walked down the long hill to the swim start and the race director, Jeff Cole, went over all the pre-race stuff — the course, the turns, what to watch for. And I have to be honest with you: I wasn't paying much attention. By then I knew everybody. I was a recognizable face in that community with a ton of friends, so I was screwing around, talking, joking, doing everything except listening to the man explain the course.

Remember that. It matters later.

The Race of My Life

The swim went well. Swimming was never my best of the three, but I'd gotten to average — maybe a little above — and I came out of the water in good shape. Then you run a long way up over the hill to transition, because in Franconia, New Hampshire, you're either going uphill or downhill. There is no third option.

The bike was the best I ever rode on a course like that: 20.4 miles an hour average, on those hills. And when I rolled back into transition, I got the shock of my racing life.

There were hardly any bikes there.

There were something like 600 people in that race, and I could see maybe three or four bikes racked. I knew I'd ridden well, but I didn't think I was with the leaders. I'd won a race or two in my day, but smaller stuff. Not this. Never this.

My friend Dave was standing at the fence. I said, "Where is everybody?"

He said, "They're out on the run. You're with the leaders."

Now, you have to understand what I looked like out there. The fast guys in that sport are six-foot-one, six-foot-two, 152 pounds. I was five-foot-eight and about 170. I did not look like your typical fast-guy triathlete. I used to say I was the slowest of the fast guys and the fastest of the slow guys — and that day, for once, the fast part was winning.

So I took off on the run — out and back, then out and back again, downhill going out, uphill coming home — and I was running about a 7:40 pace off a 56-mile bike ride, which for me was flying. I got picked off by a couple of guys, I got one back, my buddy Rick was out there racing with stomach problems and still yelling at me to go get 'em. I was having the race of my life.

And then, on the final stretch, I made the mistake.

The Turn

Coming up the last part of the course there was a volunteer waving people toward him. What I didn't understand — because I was deep in the pain cave, staring at the three feet of dirt trail in front of me, suffering the way you're supposed to suffer when you're having the day of your life — was that he was gathering people to hand out bracelets for the second loop.

I'd been there before. I'd already done that part. There were so many people around because I was lapping people. So I kind of waved at him, pointed that I was going through, and kept running.

What I never saw was the right-hand turn a couple hundred yards back. The turn for the final lap.

I ran up over the hill, out onto the road — which seemed perfectly natural to me — hooked a left into transition, and finished.

Seventh overall. At a major 70.3. My parents right there. The best swim-bike-run day I'd ever put together, all three disciplines, the one time in 15 years I was truly up there with the big dogs.

And then a fellow competitor walked up to me and said:

"Dude. Did you take that turn back there?"

I laughed at him. "What are you talking about? What turn?"

"There was a right-hand turn back there. I don't think you took it."

Oh shit.

"You Need to DQ Me"

I went straight to Jeff Cole.

"Jeff, was there a right-hand turn back there?"

"Yeah, Bobby. You didn't take it."

Jeff always called me Bobby. Bobby Turner, full volume, point at me from across any course in New England.

I said, "Can I go back and run it?"

He said no. I'd already finished. That door was closed.

So I said the thing that crushed me to say:

"Then you need to DQ me."

He said, "You're kidding me."

I was not kidding. "Jeff, I didn't take the turn. You have to disqualify me."

Here's the part that made it so hard: it didn't matter. Not to the standings. I was separated by a minute or two from the guy in front of me and a minute or two from the guy behind me. Nobody's place changed because of my mistake. And I'd still run about 12.8 miles of a 13.1-mile course. If I'd just kept my mouth shut, nobody on this earth would ever have known.

But I knew.

I didn't run the whole course. And it meant something to me.

So I walked over by the fence and sat down for a few minutes with my parents and my friends around, coming off one of the highest points of my racing life straight into one of the lowest. That was one of the hardest things I ever had to do in racing.

But it was the right thing to do.

What I Remember Now

Here's the funny part, 13 years later: I don't remember the DNF.

I went home and did what we all did back then — pulled up the results on the computer to see where I ranked. Scrolled down. Down past the finishers. Down to the bottom, where they list the DNFs.

Did Not Finish. Bob Turner.

I didn't spend a whole lot of time worrying about it. I turned my focus to Lake Placid, and a month later I went to New York and raced with a vengeance: 10 hours, 37 minutes, with a 3:42 marathon to close it out. One of the best efforts of my career. White Mountains teed that day up. The fitness was real. The day was real. The only thing that wasn't real was the result.

What I remember is the empty transition area. Dave at the fence. Laying down one of the best efforts I ever had. And Jeff Cole.

Jeff passed away suddenly a few years after that race — 2018, I believe. In my mind he was the best race director there ever was. A lot of personality, a great friend. Any time he'd spot me on a course he'd point at me and scream "BOBBY TURNER!" at the top of his lungs. He knew I was always out there giving my best. And I knew he was, too. It was hard when he passed.

The Point of All This

I think if you asked people from those days what they remember about me, it would be that I raced hard, I was fair, and I treated everyone with respect. Between the start line and the finish line, we weren't friends. When it was over we could have a beer and laugh about it. The race is just graduation day anyway — the real memories are the training runs, the camps, the trips with friends.

And I always tried to respect the game. Never be bigger than it. Nothing made me madder than people who were in it for the wrong reasons — cutting a corner here, drafting a little there, grabbing an edge they didn't earn. I never did that. Not because somebody might catch me.

Because that's not the game.

I also made a habit, all those years, of looking around transition for the new guy. You could spot them — no idea how to set their stuff up, trying not to look lost. I'd walk over: "Hey man, you new to this? Need a hand?" Every time, super grateful. I got as much out of the sport from those moments as from any finish line.

That's what 15 years of triathlon gave me, and it's worth more than any result sheet: it taught me how to win and how to lose, and how to do both with grace — and it let me demonstrate that for my daughter, which matters more than all of it.

Seventh place would've been nice to keep.

But I'd rather be the guy who walked up to the race director.

— BT