Day 302: 140.6

So yesterday Mr. Guilt, who's been living in my head rent free since I was a child, coerced me into going to the gym yesterday and put in some miles on the treadmill.  I don't think it was coincidence that at the same time I was running, the Ironman Triathlon in Hawaii was telecast on the TV right in front of me.  I don't expect many of you to get this.  When you tell someone that you are intentionally going to travel 140.6 miles in a day, all self-propelled, a crescendo of "WHY!?" will be the response.  An entire book could be written to try to explain what compels someone to do that but I think the bottom line is that if it needs explaining, then it'll never be understood.  You either get it or you don't, and that's fine either way.  Why does a person climb Mt. Everest?  Why does someone compete in an Ironman distance triathlon?  To swim 2.4 miles, cycle for 112 miles and run 26.2 miles is not natural and probably not sane either. 

It's a tremendous commitment when one decides to do an Ironman.  It takes months of preparations and that's assuming you've already been doing this type of physical and mental torture for a number of years.  Deciding to do an Ironman is like deciding to pursue your Doctorate.  You've gotten your undergrad and Masters degrees.  The last great challenge is that Doctorate and for triathlons, it's the Ironman.  I never made it to Hawaii, never qualifying nor winning a lottery draw, and that sits as one of my greatest disappointments in life.  I have, though, competed in and completed two Iron distance triathlons and the experiences are permanently seared into my psyche.

I do miss the sport.  The early morning preparations in the transition area.  Checking and rechecking your gear and bicycle, making sure everything is in order and ready to go.  The nervous energy as you strip down out of your sweats so a volunteer can mark your body with your bib number.  Like being prepped for major surgery, it's coming and there's no turning back.  The nervous trips to the port-a-potty (as many as six times in an hour).  The announcement to head to the water to start your wave.  The sound of the horn or cannon, signaling the start of the race, that shoots through your heart like a bolt of electricity as you run on rubber legs to the near black, foreboding ocean water that is ready to consume you.  Struggling to bring your heart rate down while you overcome your fear of the water, thinking in your mind how you desperately are just wanting to get out of the water and onto your bike. You eventually get into a groove, using visualization to trick yourself into thinking you're just swimming in a pool.  Your breathing is steady and eventually you find yourself in a rhythmic dance that moves you through the water.

You're nearly done with the swim and now you have to struggle to fight through the crashing waves and surf that is pulling and beating you with every attempt to free yourself from it's clutches.  Finally you're scurrying into the transition area, stripping out of your wetsuit and trying to remember where you racked your bike.  You finally get your bearings and quickly slip into your cycling shoes, gulp down some Gatorade and before you know it you're off.  The longest part of the day is ahead of you but you're so relieved to finally be out of the water that you actually look forward to hours of having a bike seat wedged up your ass.  The miles tick away.  You're maintaining your planned pace.  You try not to chase the other cyclists sprinting ahead of you.  You've got 112 miles on the bike followed by another 26.2 miles of running.  You have to remind yourself you'll see them again.  Eventually the miles will take their toll on you.  Stiffness forms in your neck and shoulders.  You're lower back seizes up a bit but the worst part is the lack of feeling in your groin.  Pressure on your pelvic bone has completely deaden that part of your body and you begin to wonder if you'll ever father children again or worse yet, be able to "play ball" without having to "cork the bat." 

You're now less than a mile from the transition area so you slip your feet out of your cycling shoes to help save valuable time transitioning from a cyclist to runner.  You're off the bike and your legs respond with both a resounding "Holy shit!" to "Ahhhh, thank God".  You rack your bike, slip into your running shoes, take another gulp of Gatorade while grabbing a handful of your favorite energy food and you're off!  It takes a while to get your legs to transition from spinning in circles to lunging forward.  It won't be long until you're into a comfortable pace and it's at this time that your mind locks down into a trance like state, allowing only those thoughts and emotions that will serve you rather than defeat you.  No thoughts of 26 miles.  Only the awareness of that "hum" that reverberates throughout your body.  If you're lucky that "runner's high" that we've all heard of will kick in and carry you through the better part of this self-induced torture.  Eventually over time the run course begins to take on the look of a battle field.  Those ultra swimmers and cyclists that blew past you earlier are now blowing chunks on the side of the road.  Another person is lying face up, glazed over eyes with pasty white skin, another victim of their own brutality.  Some are running as if they're running a 5K.  Others are jogging.  Many others are stammering, stumbling and shuffling.  Others are walking, eyes burning into the asphalt, the only source of energy they have is the pure will to finish even though their bodies have begun to fail them. 

I do my best to ignore the carnage around me, focusing only on my pain and my ability to overcome.  For me this is where fear kicks in.  Fear of failure.  Fear that I would have to go home and explain to others how I failed to accomplish what I set out to do.  With only a few miles left in this contest of wills, where the very act of raising my arm to accept a cup of water takes on near Herculean proportions, anger and hatred are now my bedfellows.  The thought of failure, to accept and succumb to the pain that is racking my body are things my rage feasts upon.  "F### YOU!" has become my mantra.  To quit, to give in, are luxuries I'm not entitled to.  Finish this.  Finish what I've started.  Finish or DIE!  A literal ultimatum. 

With only a couple hundred yards to go you reach an elevated state of awareness that's beyond description and I think it's that state which compels many of us to return to this battlefield.  The flood of emotions at that very moment your foot crosses the finish line is unbelievable.  There's a sense of euphoria and completeness that is unlike anything else in life.  It wasn't just genetics that carried you to the finish line.  It's a known fact that nearly ever human has enough stored energy in their bodies to run back to back marathons right now. 
No, it's much more than that.  It's the collective whole, the sum of all our parts and at the very center of that our soul and the will to drive on that marks the dividing line between those that do and those that don't.  That power exists in ALL of us.  The only question and the only reason between you achieving success and not is the desire to discover who you really are.  If it really matters to you to know what strength lies within you, then great fortune will always be your companion.