Two years ago, almost to the day, I became an Ironman for the first time. It was a special day, as all Ironman races tend to be, but it was made even more so because my entire family was there; some, like my Dad, Joe and Jim, were there to race while Ellie, Amelia, Lilly and my Mom had made the trip to cheer us on. I was even lucky enough to have Brogan, Ryan and Carinne make the trek down as well. What more could you ask for, especially in your first Ironman than to race alongside, and in front of, the people that mattered in my life, the people you love?
I raced well that day, and perhaps more importantly, I raced smart. I held back until there was no point in holding back anymore and then I fought to the finish line and spent the next few months trying to make sense of it all. It's been two years and I'm still not sure I understand that day -- all of its emotions, all of the decisions. How can you ever describe that feeling of seeing the bright lights and hearing the music and knowing you will be called an Ironman in a few minutes; that after all the hills, all the stops at gas stations, all the aches and pains that surfaced, all the times you lost count of how many laps in the pool, all the times your legs felt dead but you trained anyway -- after all that, you were here. How do you find words for that? Or the moment you hit mile 21 and your legs are in agony and you think, I seriously have to run five more miles?! but you somehow keep running? Or when you're tired from a long day in the saddle and you come back in to town and start running and you see your friends and family all smiling and so excited -- how can you describe that transfer of energy, that rush in your heart?
It was one of the best days of my life, though can't find all the words to tell you why.
It was one of the best days of my life, though can't find all the words to tell you why.
A week ago I returned to Florida for the Ironman, though not to race. This time, I was there to watch Ryan -- the one wearing the white woman's tank top and running in sandals in the photo above. He was racing.
It is hard, or at least a daunting prospect, to describe all the changes in Ryan since that photo was taken. He's lost weight, learned the beauty of the aero position, felt the touch of a Venus razor, acquired the horrific tan-lines of a triathlete, he's fallen off his bike because he forgot to unclip, he's mastered the distant stare a long ride brings, he's become stronger, leaner, more focused. He's started wearing men's clothes. He's taken the steps that everyone walks to get to the start of an Ironman.
He has gone from standing on the sidelines, in a white woman's tank top wondering what it all means, to signing the dotted line and registering for one, though still wondering what the hell it all means.
When he told me that he'd signed up for Ironman Florida I congratulated him, probably said something sophisticated like "that's really badass, man." I also promised that I'd be there -- as he'd been there for me when I'd done my first.
As the race drew closer and closer Ryan and I would talk over the phone about his training and I'd give him a bit of advice ["yes, it's normal for your ass to hurt after your first ride in a new saddle"]. We'd talk about nutrition, swimming, how much changing a flat tire sucks. I followed his training this way -- through the phone conversations -- until three months ago, when Ryan moved to Austin and became my roommate.
Living in the same house, I was able to be even more of a help, making snide comments as he was leaving for his long weekend ride. "Sure glad I don't have to spend six hours on a bike today," I'd say. That was if I was awake. Often times I would woke up late after a night of work and see that Ryan wasn't in his room and his bike wasn't in the living room [decorating isn't a strong suit of the members in the house] and so I knew he was outside, grinding out the miles. He didn't seek my counsel as often in recent months.
And then it started to creep towards November and then finally it was November and it was time to pack, to leave, to see what lay ahead in Florida.
We left Austin on a Tuesday afternoon in his BWM and for the first few miles I could tell he was running over the checklist he'd made in his head. If you can lose count of laps as you swim, you can forget to bring a wetsuit.
-"Race belt?" I asked.
-"Yeah."
-"Goggles?"
-"Uh-huh."
-"Bike?" I asked. He looked at me like I was slow.
-"You helped me tie it down," Ryan said.
That's right. I had helped him tie it down. With a rather clever knot to keep it from swaying. I should remind him of this later in the trip when I needed something.
-"Bike shoes?"
-"Yup."
-"Socks?"
-"Yeah. I brought four pairs."
-"I didn't ask how many pairs you brought. I just asked if you had socks."
-"Well then, yes, I have socks."
-"Good. How many pairs did you bring?"
And then Ryan stared blankly at the road. A lot of our conversations ended this way.
The drive from Austin to Panama City Beach is a fairly simple one. You take 71 until you hit I-10 east, which you then stay on for close to 700 miles, and then you take one Florida highway until the signs let you know that you're in Panama City Beach. While simple, the trip didn't offer much in the way of scenery. Factories, McDonalds and Shell stations, billboards encouraging you to gamble -- those were the only real distractions, though after a few hundred miles they start to blur with the trees and the lines on the road.
Realizing that the drive, much like the highway itself, can become horrendously tedious, I saw it as my passengerly duty to keep Ryan entertained.
For instance, when we were in Alabama, I came up with a game where I covered my mouth with my right hand and then Ryan had to guess what I was saying. If you haven't tried it, it's fun. Especially after an incorrect guess, because you just say the same thing into your hand, only slower. This is about as helpful as when you slow down your speech because you're trying to tell a confused Singaporean cab driver where to go.
-"I need to go to Fernhill road, please."
-"Ah?"
-"Fernhill. Road."
-"Ah?"
-"FERN.HILL. ROAD."
-"Ah?"
He doesn't speak nor understand English, no matter how slowly you say it, just as your words are muffled by your hand, no matter how slowly you pronounce them. I must say though, Ryan became quite good at guessing as the trip wore on.
Before I came up with the "hand-over-mouth" game, we had briefly dabbled in the classic road trip game, "I Spy."
-"I spy with my little eye, something beginning with the letter O," I said.
Ryan scanned the world outside through his windshield, looking for something starting with an O. "Ummm...."
I waited for a few more seconds, but all he gave me was more muttering and thinking.
-"Just guess," I said.
-"I'm thinking."
-"Don't think, just guess."
-"I can't think of anything that starts with an O."
-"Ostrich starts with an O."
-"Helpful," Ryan said. Then he thought some more.
-"Oligarchy starts with an O."
Ryan ignored that comment. He kept on thinking. I began to have a sneaking suspicion he had no plans on guessing. Just stalling.
-"It was oxygen," I finally said.
-"Oxygen?"
-"Yeah. Like the thing you breathe."
-"But... you can't see oxygen," Ryan said.
-"So you're telling me what I can and can't see?"
-"No. What I'm telling you is that the human eye can't see oxygen. It's way too small."
-"Scientists told us that the human body "physically couldn't" run under a four minute mile. Why don't you ask Roger Bannister how that one worked out."
-"So you can see oxygen?"
-"How else would I be breathing right now?" I could tell my logic was starting to win Ryan over.
-"You don't have to see oxygen in order to be able to breathe it in."
-"Read a book, man."
And then Ryan stared blankly at the road. Knowing that this silence would kill the game, I started again.
-"I spy with my lit--"
-"I'm not playing," Ryan said.
-"I spy with my little--"
-"I'm not going to guess anything."
-"I spy with my little eye, something beginning with the letter G."
There is a lesson in perseverance here. Especially if you have someone trapped in a car with you. I kept saying it until I could tell Ryan was thinking of what I was spying.
-"Is there Gallium in the atmosphere?" Ryan asked himself and me as well.
-"It was grass, you moron... Gallium, really?"
Ryan wouldn't play anymore after that, no matter which letter the word started with.
We spent the first night in Biloxi [no gambling this time] and arrived in PCB the next day. As we drove in to town, we passed groups of Ironman competitors taking their bikes out for a ride, and then a little further down Front Beach road were little clumps of runners in spandex. You drove in and thought it was a city with an absurdly tan, muscular, and hairless population. Ryan gave these groups hard stares as we drove by. Then he'd look at the road some more.
-"How's this feel, man?" I asked.
-"Real."
This would've been a perfect time for the "hand-over-mouth" game, but I didn't say anything. I left Ryan with his thoughts.
The next day, Ryan's mother flew in and the day after that, his friend Christina came in and we all settled in to the three bedroom apartment [I, because that's the kind of guy I am, had insisted upon sleeping on the pull-out couch, and so the living room became my home.
Speaking of pull-out couches, I've had an exceptional idea for a long time and this seems the perfect time to share it. When there's a social issue that demands attention and action, one way to draw attention, especially among the younger demographics, is to create a cartoon character who fights against those social issues. Scruff McGruff wanted kids to be off drugs, to help him "take a bite out of crime". Smokey the Bear warned you about forest fires; "only you can prevent forest fires." Captain Planet saved the world from pollution; "the power is YOURS!" Seeing as overpopulation is becoming an increasingly real problem, I created Pully -- the contraceptivelly aware pull-out couch. He could teach kids the importance of, as well as the different methods of birth control. And he'd end each commerical by saying: "Remember kids, couches aren't the only things that can pull out."
Anyways. I slept on the couch.
For those racing, the days leading up to the Ironman are weird. Uncomfortable might be a better word. For the last six months, a huge chunk of your life has centered around countless workouts. Yet in the days before, you sit around and do as little as possible. You feel guilty that you're so stagnant, you wonder if you should be doing one last run or loosening the legs on a little bike ride. And then when you've overcome that obstacle by convincing yourself that you are in fact doing something [you're conserving!] you find yourself walking around town, or picking up your packet or checking in your bike and you look at everybody else that's racing and they all seem like tan robots who are going to finish the race in under eight hours. And here you are, not as tan as they are, and you haven't even gone for a ride in three days.
Your body isn't moving so your mind compensates and rarely stops.
But amazingly, the days go by just like any other and you begin to breathe a little easier. And so before Ryan's Mom landed, we went down and picked up his packet.
The next day, before Christina arrived, we drove down and checked in his bike, which I might say, looked fairly sleek with the "ED" wheels on them.
And then when all that was done, we waited for the day to come. We sat around, we ate, we went to local businesses like Walmart or Publix when needed.
He has gone from standing on the sidelines, in a white woman's tank top wondering what it all means, to signing the dotted line and registering for one, though still wondering what the hell it all means.
When he told me that he'd signed up for Ironman Florida I congratulated him, probably said something sophisticated like "that's really badass, man." I also promised that I'd be there -- as he'd been there for me when I'd done my first.
As the race drew closer and closer Ryan and I would talk over the phone about his training and I'd give him a bit of advice ["yes, it's normal for your ass to hurt after your first ride in a new saddle"]. We'd talk about nutrition, swimming, how much changing a flat tire sucks. I followed his training this way -- through the phone conversations -- until three months ago, when Ryan moved to Austin and became my roommate.
Living in the same house, I was able to be even more of a help, making snide comments as he was leaving for his long weekend ride. "Sure glad I don't have to spend six hours on a bike today," I'd say. That was if I was awake. Often times I would woke up late after a night of work and see that Ryan wasn't in his room and his bike wasn't in the living room [decorating isn't a strong suit of the members in the house] and so I knew he was outside, grinding out the miles. He didn't seek my counsel as often in recent months.
And then it started to creep towards November and then finally it was November and it was time to pack, to leave, to see what lay ahead in Florida.
We left Austin on a Tuesday afternoon in his BWM and for the first few miles I could tell he was running over the checklist he'd made in his head. If you can lose count of laps as you swim, you can forget to bring a wetsuit.
-"Race belt?" I asked.
-"Yeah."
-"Goggles?"
-"Uh-huh."
-"Bike?" I asked. He looked at me like I was slow.
-"You helped me tie it down," Ryan said.
That's right. I had helped him tie it down. With a rather clever knot to keep it from swaying. I should remind him of this later in the trip when I needed something.
-"Bike shoes?"
-"Yup."
-"Socks?"
-"Yeah. I brought four pairs."
-"I didn't ask how many pairs you brought. I just asked if you had socks."
-"Well then, yes, I have socks."
-"Good. How many pairs did you bring?"
And then Ryan stared blankly at the road. A lot of our conversations ended this way.
The drive from Austin to Panama City Beach is a fairly simple one. You take 71 until you hit I-10 east, which you then stay on for close to 700 miles, and then you take one Florida highway until the signs let you know that you're in Panama City Beach. While simple, the trip didn't offer much in the way of scenery. Factories, McDonalds and Shell stations, billboards encouraging you to gamble -- those were the only real distractions, though after a few hundred miles they start to blur with the trees and the lines on the road.
Realizing that the drive, much like the highway itself, can become horrendously tedious, I saw it as my passengerly duty to keep Ryan entertained.
For instance, when we were in Alabama, I came up with a game where I covered my mouth with my right hand and then Ryan had to guess what I was saying. If you haven't tried it, it's fun. Especially after an incorrect guess, because you just say the same thing into your hand, only slower. This is about as helpful as when you slow down your speech because you're trying to tell a confused Singaporean cab driver where to go.
-"I need to go to Fernhill road, please."
-"Ah?"
-"Fernhill. Road."
-"Ah?"
-"FERN.HILL. ROAD."
-"Ah?"
He doesn't speak nor understand English, no matter how slowly you say it, just as your words are muffled by your hand, no matter how slowly you pronounce them. I must say though, Ryan became quite good at guessing as the trip wore on.
Before I came up with the "hand-over-mouth" game, we had briefly dabbled in the classic road trip game, "I Spy."
-"I spy with my little eye, something beginning with the letter O," I said.
Ryan scanned the world outside through his windshield, looking for something starting with an O. "Ummm...."
I waited for a few more seconds, but all he gave me was more muttering and thinking.
-"Just guess," I said.
-"I'm thinking."
-"Don't think, just guess."
-"I can't think of anything that starts with an O."
-"Ostrich starts with an O."
-"Helpful," Ryan said. Then he thought some more.
-"Oligarchy starts with an O."
Ryan ignored that comment. He kept on thinking. I began to have a sneaking suspicion he had no plans on guessing. Just stalling.
-"It was oxygen," I finally said.
-"Oxygen?"
-"Yeah. Like the thing you breathe."
-"But... you can't see oxygen," Ryan said.
-"So you're telling me what I can and can't see?"
-"No. What I'm telling you is that the human eye can't see oxygen. It's way too small."
-"Scientists told us that the human body "physically couldn't" run under a four minute mile. Why don't you ask Roger Bannister how that one worked out."
-"So you can see oxygen?"
-"How else would I be breathing right now?" I could tell my logic was starting to win Ryan over.
-"You don't have to see oxygen in order to be able to breathe it in."
-"Read a book, man."
And then Ryan stared blankly at the road. Knowing that this silence would kill the game, I started again.
-"I spy with my lit--"
-"I'm not playing," Ryan said.
-"I spy with my little--"
-"I'm not going to guess anything."
-"I spy with my little eye, something beginning with the letter G."
There is a lesson in perseverance here. Especially if you have someone trapped in a car with you. I kept saying it until I could tell Ryan was thinking of what I was spying.
-"Is there Gallium in the atmosphere?" Ryan asked himself and me as well.
-"It was grass, you moron... Gallium, really?"
Ryan wouldn't play anymore after that, no matter which letter the word started with.
We spent the first night in Biloxi [no gambling this time] and arrived in PCB the next day. As we drove in to town, we passed groups of Ironman competitors taking their bikes out for a ride, and then a little further down Front Beach road were little clumps of runners in spandex. You drove in and thought it was a city with an absurdly tan, muscular, and hairless population. Ryan gave these groups hard stares as we drove by. Then he'd look at the road some more.
-"How's this feel, man?" I asked.
-"Real."
This would've been a perfect time for the "hand-over-mouth" game, but I didn't say anything. I left Ryan with his thoughts.
The next day, Ryan's mother flew in and the day after that, his friend Christina came in and we all settled in to the three bedroom apartment [I, because that's the kind of guy I am, had insisted upon sleeping on the pull-out couch, and so the living room became my home.
Speaking of pull-out couches, I've had an exceptional idea for a long time and this seems the perfect time to share it. When there's a social issue that demands attention and action, one way to draw attention, especially among the younger demographics, is to create a cartoon character who fights against those social issues. Scruff McGruff wanted kids to be off drugs, to help him "take a bite out of crime". Smokey the Bear warned you about forest fires; "only you can prevent forest fires." Captain Planet saved the world from pollution; "the power is YOURS!" Seeing as overpopulation is becoming an increasingly real problem, I created Pully -- the contraceptivelly aware pull-out couch. He could teach kids the importance of, as well as the different methods of birth control. And he'd end each commerical by saying: "Remember kids, couches aren't the only things that can pull out."
Anyways. I slept on the couch.
For those racing, the days leading up to the Ironman are weird. Uncomfortable might be a better word. For the last six months, a huge chunk of your life has centered around countless workouts. Yet in the days before, you sit around and do as little as possible. You feel guilty that you're so stagnant, you wonder if you should be doing one last run or loosening the legs on a little bike ride. And then when you've overcome that obstacle by convincing yourself that you are in fact doing something [you're conserving!] you find yourself walking around town, or picking up your packet or checking in your bike and you look at everybody else that's racing and they all seem like tan robots who are going to finish the race in under eight hours. And here you are, not as tan as they are, and you haven't even gone for a ride in three days.
Your body isn't moving so your mind compensates and rarely stops.
But amazingly, the days go by just like any other and you begin to breathe a little easier. And so before Ryan's Mom landed, we went down and picked up his packet.
The next day, before Christina arrived, we drove down and checked in his bike, which I might say, looked fairly sleek with the "ED" wheels on them.
In these waiting days, I found time to sit out on the balcony and read in a rocking chair as the sun washed over me. It is a beautiful way to pass the time and I decided that wherever I end up living, there will be at least one rocking chair and one hammock on the property, though probably more. The rocking chair will be on the porch and it won't creak when you rock in it and the hammock will be strung between two trees. That isn't asking for too much, I think.
Every now and then I'd ask Ryan how he was doing and he'd say "good", or some other short answer that didn't really tell you much other than that he didn't want to have a long conversation about how he was doing.
I remember one time I asked and he just said "fine" and I could tell from his face that he was lying, that he was pretty nervous, but I just nodded and smiled because I knew. All part of the Ironman.
Every now and then I'd ask Ryan how he was doing and he'd say "good", or some other short answer that didn't really tell you much other than that he didn't want to have a long conversation about how he was doing.
I remember one time I asked and he just said "fine" and I could tell from his face that he was lying, that he was pretty nervous, but I just nodded and smiled because I knew. All part of the Ironman.
We sat down for dinner the night before the race. Ryan's Mom had cooked a beautiful meal of pasta with chicken and tomato sauce, salad and bread, though she constantly apologized for how it tasted. We talked about the race, as much as you can when it is still 12 hours away. I told Mrs. Burns and Christina what to expect, even outlined a rough guide for how we could spectate the race. Ryan ate some of his food but didn't finish it all and I guessed that his mind was on other things. Then, as if we had all heard a silent cue, we looked at Ryan and told him what we wanted to say. Mrs. Burns and Ryan shared a very touching moment, with both of them in tears. She told him how proud she was of him, no matter what happened out there. "Do it for yourself... Finish for you." she said. I'm fairly certain her last words that night were, "I'm just so proud."
I had spent a lot of time thinking about what I was going to say at dinner. I even called Dad and Joe and asked them what they would say -- what they thought I should say. There was a certain pressure behind all this; two years ago, on the night before my race, we were all eating that delicious pasta with meat sauce that Mom makes, and what Ryan said during that dinner stuck with me, and inspired me during the race. I wanted to return the favor.
What I ended up saying was a bit of everything. I told him to start slow, to not worry about being passed because that extra energy comes in handy in the later stages of the marathon. I told him to enjoy the day, that he should measure success out there by seeing if he could smile at mile twenty on the marathon -- if you can, you've paced it right. If you can't, don't smile, just grit your teeth and finish. I told him how much his words from two years ago meant to me, how amazing it was to think of that night, how incredible it was for him to be back here.
And then I ended by telling him to take a mental picture of this dinner. "You're going to need something to bring you home tomorrow," I said. "When it's dark and your legs hurt like they've never hurt before, you need something to keep you going. Remember this. Remember we're out there with you. And then find your way home."
Shortly after dinner ended, Mrs. Burns and I argued over who got to clean up, and we reached a psuedo-compromise and both cleaned. She confirmed my belief that most small people are stubborn.
Then everyone drifted in to their rooms and tried to sleep.
Thanks to the hours that come with being a bartender, I knew I'd be awake for a few more hours so I made my way outside on the balcony, hopped in the rocking chair and looked out at the water. It was a quiet view, beautifully colored by what was left of the sun.
And quite seflishly, I thought of myself. I knew I was there for Ryan, to offer advice when needed, to help carry things, to make sure the bike worked with the new wheels, to help Christina and Mrs. Burns navigate the chaos of spectating an Ironman. I knew why I was there. But there is something about the night before an Ironman, something in the orange a dying sun leaves behind, something in the metronomic regularity of the waves. Again, I can't find all the words to tell exactly what that "something" is, or what it means. You have to feel the wind come off the water, you have to watch the orange fade to blue, you have to hear the water beat against the sand. Then you'll know.
It was strange to be back but not racing; an implied regression of sorts. Are you an Ironman, or were you an Ironman? I had backed out of Ironman Wisconsin earlier in the year and I still carried remnants of shame from that decision, especially here, surrounded by all these people who hadn't quit. Part of me wanted to be lying in bed, nervous about the day ahead, wondering how my legs would feel. To be on the verge of renewing my Ironman vows. But the other part of me knew that I would race again one day, that there is always a starting line to be found and that I will find one. At whatever race I decide to do, I'm certain Lilly will be an all-star spectator; she could talk endlessly to all the participants as they ran by, which from what I gather, is something she is busy practicing at home each day.
I will find that race, wherever and whenever that is.
My debt was over, and I thought about that too. I pictured an evil little man named Debt with a voice like Peter Lorre's drowning somewhere in the dark water that stretched out in front of me. "Pleease. Heelllp mee, Viiince!" Debt cried out, struggling to stay above the water. "Viiiiiince!!!" he cried out one last time. "My name's not Vince," I pictured myself shouting back at him.
And then Debt slipped beneath the surface, forever. That brought a smile.
I thought about the race two years ago, how magical it had been to ride with Dad on the bike, how much of a burden Joe must carry having been caught cheating/drafting. I remembered little moments, like standing on the beach and shaking out my shoulders, or passing Dad on the run and hearing him say "see you at mile 19." I remembered watching Lilly crawl, those amazing long-sleeved t-shirts that made us all laugh. I remembered running in the dark, and then putting my arm around Dad and Joe after we'd all finished. I remembered hugging Mom. What a day it had been.
And then I thought about what lies ahead, or what I want to be ahead. And while my mind drifted away to Ireland [why always Ireland?], I soon found a way to just be in Florida, in a rocking chair overlooking the water. I found a calm that had been lacking for so long.
I am going to race again and when I do, I will be ready, I will be strong. I am going to travel. I'm going to write, to write well. I'm going to find the right person at the right time. Enjoy the rocking chair, enjoy the sunset. Enjoy the memories of races done. Be better tomorrow than you were today, do what is right, and those will come.
But scripts are notoriously difficult to sell, as are books. And how does one ever write something like The Pickwick Papers or the screenplay to Gladiator? And what about love, how does one find that too? Where? If I stop writing will it be easier? Is it worth finding if it means less writing? And what about my ankle? Can I even train the way I want--
Enjoy the rocking chair, enjoy the sunset.
That was my refrain.
Do what is right, each and every day, and that will all come.
I had spent a lot of time thinking about what I was going to say at dinner. I even called Dad and Joe and asked them what they would say -- what they thought I should say. There was a certain pressure behind all this; two years ago, on the night before my race, we were all eating that delicious pasta with meat sauce that Mom makes, and what Ryan said during that dinner stuck with me, and inspired me during the race. I wanted to return the favor.
What I ended up saying was a bit of everything. I told him to start slow, to not worry about being passed because that extra energy comes in handy in the later stages of the marathon. I told him to enjoy the day, that he should measure success out there by seeing if he could smile at mile twenty on the marathon -- if you can, you've paced it right. If you can't, don't smile, just grit your teeth and finish. I told him how much his words from two years ago meant to me, how amazing it was to think of that night, how incredible it was for him to be back here.
And then I ended by telling him to take a mental picture of this dinner. "You're going to need something to bring you home tomorrow," I said. "When it's dark and your legs hurt like they've never hurt before, you need something to keep you going. Remember this. Remember we're out there with you. And then find your way home."
Shortly after dinner ended, Mrs. Burns and I argued over who got to clean up, and we reached a psuedo-compromise and both cleaned. She confirmed my belief that most small people are stubborn.
Then everyone drifted in to their rooms and tried to sleep.
Thanks to the hours that come with being a bartender, I knew I'd be awake for a few more hours so I made my way outside on the balcony, hopped in the rocking chair and looked out at the water. It was a quiet view, beautifully colored by what was left of the sun.
And quite seflishly, I thought of myself. I knew I was there for Ryan, to offer advice when needed, to help carry things, to make sure the bike worked with the new wheels, to help Christina and Mrs. Burns navigate the chaos of spectating an Ironman. I knew why I was there. But there is something about the night before an Ironman, something in the orange a dying sun leaves behind, something in the metronomic regularity of the waves. Again, I can't find all the words to tell exactly what that "something" is, or what it means. You have to feel the wind come off the water, you have to watch the orange fade to blue, you have to hear the water beat against the sand. Then you'll know.
It was strange to be back but not racing; an implied regression of sorts. Are you an Ironman, or were you an Ironman? I had backed out of Ironman Wisconsin earlier in the year and I still carried remnants of shame from that decision, especially here, surrounded by all these people who hadn't quit. Part of me wanted to be lying in bed, nervous about the day ahead, wondering how my legs would feel. To be on the verge of renewing my Ironman vows. But the other part of me knew that I would race again one day, that there is always a starting line to be found and that I will find one. At whatever race I decide to do, I'm certain Lilly will be an all-star spectator; she could talk endlessly to all the participants as they ran by, which from what I gather, is something she is busy practicing at home each day.
I will find that race, wherever and whenever that is.
My debt was over, and I thought about that too. I pictured an evil little man named Debt with a voice like Peter Lorre's drowning somewhere in the dark water that stretched out in front of me. "Pleease. Heelllp mee, Viiince!" Debt cried out, struggling to stay above the water. "Viiiiiince!!!" he cried out one last time. "My name's not Vince," I pictured myself shouting back at him.
And then Debt slipped beneath the surface, forever. That brought a smile.
I thought about the race two years ago, how magical it had been to ride with Dad on the bike, how much of a burden Joe must carry having been caught cheating/drafting. I remembered little moments, like standing on the beach and shaking out my shoulders, or passing Dad on the run and hearing him say "see you at mile 19." I remembered watching Lilly crawl, those amazing long-sleeved t-shirts that made us all laugh. I remembered running in the dark, and then putting my arm around Dad and Joe after we'd all finished. I remembered hugging Mom. What a day it had been.
And then I thought about what lies ahead, or what I want to be ahead. And while my mind drifted away to Ireland [why always Ireland?], I soon found a way to just be in Florida, in a rocking chair overlooking the water. I found a calm that had been lacking for so long.
I am going to race again and when I do, I will be ready, I will be strong. I am going to travel. I'm going to write, to write well. I'm going to find the right person at the right time. Enjoy the rocking chair, enjoy the sunset. Enjoy the memories of races done. Be better tomorrow than you were today, do what is right, and those will come.
But scripts are notoriously difficult to sell, as are books. And how does one ever write something like The Pickwick Papers or the screenplay to Gladiator? And what about love, how does one find that too? Where? If I stop writing will it be easier? Is it worth finding if it means less writing? And what about my ankle? Can I even train the way I want--
Enjoy the rocking chair, enjoy the sunset.
That was my refrain.
Do what is right, each and every day, and that will all come.
I had been awake for some time when Ryan came out of his room in the morning. He'd slept well -- better than he thought he would. He ate his breakfast, made sure he had his goggles and his wetsuit [I didn't ask if he'd remembered to pack his bike, though the thought and many other helpful ones like it, crossed my mind]. And then we got in the car and drove down to the start.
It was a surprisingly cold morning, forcing Ryan improvise his own hooded sweatshirt.
The morning before the race is somewhat anti-climactic for the spectators. Race day has loomed large the entire week, there are so many questions still be answered -- and yet, when you first arrive you just stand around and wait for the competitors to double-check all their transition bags, to get everything ready to race. You chat with them, offer to help whenever you can, but mainly you just stand and look around at everybody else. At least that's what Christina, Mrs. Burns and I did.
But soon enough it was time to walk down to the beach; only twenty minutes before the race would start.
We said goodbye to Ryan, quick little hugs, even quicker last words. I think mine were: "Enjoy it. Be strong."
And then after the national anthem [where the little girls singing forgot the words for a brief moment -- I wish Brogan had been there so he could have recorded every second of it], the gun went off and the day was underway. The water looked calm, and I quietly cursed it, remembering how the waves had tossed me around a few years earlier. But the more mature, non-bitter part of me was happy for Ryan. The conditions couldn't have been better.
The swim start is always an amazing sight; all those arms thrashing and splashing, all the little fluorescent swim caps bobbing on the surface.
We were able to see Ryan as he finished his first lap of the swim, and I even squeezed through the crowd and yelled "RYAN!" so loud that he turned and waved. The people nearby looked at me cautiously, as if I was unstable because I was yelling so loud so early in the morning. I looked at them and thought it strange that they were watching something so incredible and were too embarrassed to cheer as loud as they wanted.
Then we found a good spot near the bike exit and saw Ryan head out on the bike. I told him he looked sexy as he rode past and I caught a few more looks. And then he was gone. Since Ironman Florida has a one-loop bike course, [and since practically all of the roads anywhere near the course were closed to cars], we wouldn't get to see Ryan again until he was about to start the marathon.
So Mrs. Burns, Christina and I went back to the hotel and took naps. I kept waking up, looking at my watch to make sure that I hadn't overslept. Of course, I hadn't. When I did finally wake up I thought about how Ryan had been riding the whole time I'd been asleep; if he'd had a walkie-talkie on his bike, I would have let him know precisely that. He always seemed to appreciate when I pointed things like that out.
Awake and refreshed, we waited, checking the Ironman website every minute or two to see if it would give us time updates of Ryan out on the course. His times did finally register, but it was a bit slower than I had expected and part of me hoped it was a mistake. All the website told me was a time and nothing else. Had he flatted? Was he not feeling well? A crash? Brutal conditions? Timing mistake?
The bottom line was that if Ryan didn't pick up his pace quite considerably on the back half of the bike, he wouldn't make the cutoff time; he wouldn't even get the chance to run the marathon. After consulting Joe and Dad and Brogan [whom I would speak with countless times throughout the day; I'm not sure how I would have survived without them, without their updates], I told Mrs. Burns and Christina the news. We planned for the worst: How would he be if he didn't make the cutoff? What would we say to him... What can you say? Is he all-right? Countless questions we didn't want to answer.
"I hope he knows just getting here...he's already won," Mrs. Burns said a few times.
The bottom line was that if Ryan didn't pick up his pace quite considerably on the back half of the bike, he wouldn't make the cutoff time; he wouldn't even get the chance to run the marathon. After consulting Joe and Dad and Brogan [whom I would speak with countless times throughout the day; I'm not sure how I would have survived without them, without their updates], I told Mrs. Burns and Christina the news. We planned for the worst: How would he be if he didn't make the cutoff? What would we say to him... What can you say? Is he all-right? Countless questions we didn't want to answer.
"I hope he knows just getting here...he's already won," Mrs. Burns said a few times.
When we got another time update, we saw that Ryan had picked up his pace quite drastically -- a great sign. It was still going to be close, but at least he was getting faster, not slowing down.
So we hopped in the car to drive back down and stand by the transition area to see if he'd make it in before cutoff. To get back down to the transition area, we had to drive across one street that was on the run course. However, a fair amount of the athletes had begun their run, so traffic was practically at a standstill. Cops would wave a car through when there was a long enough break between the runners, but those were few and far between. So we sat in traffic, staring at the clock, knowing that whether or not we would catch Ryan coming in would be as close a call as the bike cutoff time would be for him. Finally, we decided to park the car where we were and just walk. Anything's better than sitting in traffic.
We ended up missing him coming in off the bike, but thanks to a bit of good luck, we caught him just as he was heading out on the run. It had been over eight hours since we had last seen him, and Ryan was smiling and running, which are two good things to be doing at the start of a marathon. I ran with him for a minute and asked how he was doing. His legs were good, somewhat fresh; it had just been a windy bike course. He hugged his Mom, said hi to Christina. And then he disappeared down the road.
We didn't see Ryan again until mile fourteen, and in the meantime we drank a beer and ate some food at a place called Tony's [I had a dish called ropa vieja, which translates to old clothes; I found this out later.]
When we did see Ryan at mile fourteen, based on the time he had posted for the first half marathon, it was going to be a close call as to whether or not he'd make it to the finish line before the cutoff time of seventeen hours.
If he was going to make it, he would basically have to run the same time for the second 13.1 miles as he had for the first 13.1. For the second time that day, he faced not only the pressure of the day, the tiredness of his legs, but also the threat of having someone else tell him that his race was over.
At mile fourteen, I told Mrs. Burns and Christina that I would run with Ryan for a mile or so, partly to see how he was doing, but also to just keep him company. I told them I'd see them at the finish line.
During that mile we ran together, I could see the day, and the first 13 miles of the run, had taken it's toll on him. Ryan was still running, still talking and laughing at my jokes [even the fatigue of an Ironman can't dull my sharp humor], but I know how mentally draining it is to start the second lap of a marathon. I have to do this all over again, when my legs are this tired? Do I even have enough left for that? I just want to walk for a minute. Just one minute. Maybe that will help. I'm not sure I can keep going...
And of course, he not only had to do this all over again, he had to do it without slowing down.
I could think of nothing worse than getting this far, battling this much, and then missing the cutoff time by a minute or two. It would be devastating. Ryan was strong enough, tough enough to finish. I knew that. So I decided I'd run with him a while longer. I told him that if he stuck with me, he'd be an Ironman. "Just stay with me, Ryan."
So I kept running with Ryan, telling him to stay with me, while also chatting about moronic hypothetical situations, even sharing a heart-to-heart moment where we both confessed that we liked Coldplay. At one rest stop Ryan ducked in to a porta-potty, so I called Joe.
-"How's it going?" he asked.
-"Good," I panted. "Dude. We just passed the seventeen mile marker. Can you tell me what pace we need to hold in order to finish with a fifteen minute cushion?"
-"You're at seventeen right now?"
-"Yeah."
-"Ok. Let me figure it out and I'll text you."
And so when Ryan and I started running again, my phone went off.
If he was going to make it, he would basically have to run the same time for the second 13.1 miles as he had for the first 13.1. For the second time that day, he faced not only the pressure of the day, the tiredness of his legs, but also the threat of having someone else tell him that his race was over.
At mile fourteen, I told Mrs. Burns and Christina that I would run with Ryan for a mile or so, partly to see how he was doing, but also to just keep him company. I told them I'd see them at the finish line.
During that mile we ran together, I could see the day, and the first 13 miles of the run, had taken it's toll on him. Ryan was still running, still talking and laughing at my jokes [even the fatigue of an Ironman can't dull my sharp humor], but I know how mentally draining it is to start the second lap of a marathon. I have to do this all over again, when my legs are this tired? Do I even have enough left for that? I just want to walk for a minute. Just one minute. Maybe that will help. I'm not sure I can keep going...
And of course, he not only had to do this all over again, he had to do it without slowing down.
I could think of nothing worse than getting this far, battling this much, and then missing the cutoff time by a minute or two. It would be devastating. Ryan was strong enough, tough enough to finish. I knew that. So I decided I'd run with him a while longer. I told him that if he stuck with me, he'd be an Ironman. "Just stay with me, Ryan."
So I kept running with Ryan, telling him to stay with me, while also chatting about moronic hypothetical situations, even sharing a heart-to-heart moment where we both confessed that we liked Coldplay. At one rest stop Ryan ducked in to a porta-potty, so I called Joe.
-"How's it going?" he asked.
-"Good," I panted. "Dude. We just passed the seventeen mile marker. Can you tell me what pace we need to hold in order to finish with a fifteen minute cushion?"
-"You're at seventeen right now?"
-"Yeah."
-"Ok. Let me figure it out and I'll text you."
And so when Ryan and I started running again, my phone went off.
If you guys hold 15s, you'll finish at 11:45 pm. He can fucking do this.
Now I knew what we had to do, and so did Ryan. So for the next few miles, we hit each mile marker at almost exactly fifteen minutes. We were talking a little bit less, but every now and then I'd turn to Ryan and say "Stay with me, Ryan," and he'd pick up his pace a little and get on my shoulder. He was running tough.
At later points in the run, I received the following texts from Joe:
He couldn't do this without me
And
I have 2 ironman Florida medals, so...
I read both of those to Ryan and he laughed and so did I. Though they were the least helpful of messages, they strangely did help out on the course.
Ryan and I kept running together, side by side. We made our way to the park -- the farthest point on the run course on the out and back -- and the combination of the night sky and poor lighting made it quite an eery, dark place to be. Ryan talked about how susceptible he would be to rape in his current state of fatigue, and I asked him what his reaction would have been if they had charged a $5 fee to enter the park. I imagined other people listening to our conversation and being concerned about the state of the youth in America.
Around one particular bend in the park, as the road began to steepen ever so slightly, I told Ryan this is where I had passed my Dad. I told him the mile 9 story as well, and how mature my Dad had been when he gave me the "mile 9" t-shirt for Christmas. [And I hadn't even mentioned the "seven points" shirt he gave to Joe last Christmas]. Strangely, I think stories like that helped, too.
We left the park and Ryan was still holding on to the pace. A few more miles to go and it would be over.
The course was quiet now. Hardly any spectators left. Aid stations were closing down as we ran through them. It was a lonely course, the night starting to turn cold.
I remember at one point in the run I told Ryan a story that has stuck with me since the moment I read it. It was an article about Terry Fox, the man who ran across Canada with one leg. He had lost the leg to cancer, but had decided to run across the country in spite of the missing limb to raise money and awareness for cancer. He called it the Marathon of Hope. As the days passed, Terry kept running on his artificial leg, but he began to get sick. This was over 3,000 miles in to his run. The daily running was taking it's toll. But he kept going, and if you ever catch a clip of him running, it's not a pleasant gait that he holds. You could see how hundreds of miles of running like this would break the body down, reduce it to soreness and aches and disease. A reporter, when Terry had stopped for the day, asked Terry how he did it. How did he keep going through the sickness, through the fatigue, with only one leg? "I just kept running to the next telephone pole."
While you may doubt at times if you can finish a marathon, or a coast-to-coast run, you can always run to the next light pole. Always. So that's what he did for the next few miles. Just run to the corner. Or just run to the trash can. But most of all, just run.
Later, in between mile 24 and 25, I texted Joe that Ryan had stopped running for a minute. I didn't know what to do. I wanted to motivate him, to try to get him running again. The pace had slowed down, and so the fifteen minute cushion was now under ten. But I didn't want to be heavy-handed. You can get tired of the same person talking to you for twelve miles -- tired of even someone as interesting as me. Joe sent me this:
Walk then. 37 minutes... he has to get there.
Whatever it takes.
Whatever it takes.
For that last mile, I kept repeating that line to Ryan and he kept repeating that line to himself. Whatever it takes. Whatever it takes.
I left Ryan at mile 25. I knew he was going to finish. "Enjoy this last mile. You've earned it, man."
And then I sprinted ahead, got a spot on the finishing chute, and yelled as loud as I had nearly 17 hours earlier during the swim.
 |
| "Lights will guide you home." |
It's unfortunate after all of this buildup for me to tell you that no matter what I say about the finish line, the picture will be incomplete. The hundreds of people cheering, the music blaring, seeing Ryan there in that chute after he'd fought so long for it, the conversations we'd had at mile 17, the times he'd gritted his teeth and kept running when I yelled at him -- it was all there at the finish. The showboat even high-fived a few random spectators and pumped up the crowd. It was as loud as I've ever heard a finish line before. There was charge surrounding the place that raised the hair on the back of your neck.
He crossed the line with a little over five minutes to spare. And while he didn't negative split the marathon he came damn close. He had only slowed down by two minutes on the second lap.
"RYAN! YOU. ARE AN IRONMAN," Mike Reilly shouted as only he can.
And the day was done.
It seems a strange place to end a story like this, but I must tell you about a sign in the Sterling Resort gym. To call that place a gym is generous -- there are a few treadmills, one flat bench, fifteen sets of dumbells, two stationary bikes, and one of those complicated looking machines that you can theoretically work out every single muscle in your body on -- and all of that is crammed into an area not much larger than your average master bedroom. Each time I worked out I didn't see anybody else in there, so I actually grew quite fond of this cozy gym, of how quiet it was. Especially because I could turn the tv's off and nobody would object.
Anyways. It's the day after the race, I'm lifting in this quiet little gym and in between one of my sets I notice this sign. Signs like these are standard in all gyms now, probably the result of a lawsuit where some morbidly obese man sued a gym because had a heart attack while waddling on their treadmill. Signs like these outline the expected behavior, tell you to consult your physician, blah blah blah; basically sheltering the gym from any legal obligation in case you keel over and die while using their equipment. But this sign was different.
Those last two lines:
DO NOT OVER EXERCISE
AT FIRST SIGN OF DISCOMFORT - DISCONTINUE USE
Whoever wrote that should stand at the finish line of an Ironman as their friend crosses the line to the roar of a crowd. They should run beside him at mile 23 in the dark. They should see the discomfort written on his face, watch how he did everything but "discontinue."
There are some moments in life that matter more than others; the ones that stay with you until you die. And the last six miles of an Ironman marathon matter. They stay with you long after the race is done.
You find out what's possible, what matters, what keeps you moving. You suffer but don't break. You run to the next light pole. And you realize there is no danger in the first sign of discomfort. Or the second sign. Or the 856th. The real danger is in selling yourself short. The danger is convincing yourself that you could never do an Ironman, the danger lies in listening to signs that tell you that you shouldn't over-exercise. The danger is that you negotiate, compromise and rationalize your way to a comfortable life when you should have led a great one.
I thought about that sign as we drove back, about how wrong it was. Every now and then I'd catch Ryan staring at the road ahead and I knew his mind was back in Florida, though where exactly I couldn't say. Perhaps the finish line, maybe the park or mile 80 of the bike.
It would be quiet in the car like this. And then I'd turn to Ryan with my hand over my mouth.
-"Mm mmmm, mmm, mmmm, mmm!"
-"You need to go to the bathroom?"
-"No! Mm. MMM. MMMMMMM. MMMMM. MMM."
-"You went to the bathroom?"
-"Ugh. I said I spy with my little eye, something beginning with the letter N."
-"Ugh. I said I spy with my little eye, something beginning with the letter N."
And then Ryan would look at the road with that vacant gaze of his, this time I had a much better idea of what he was thinking.
What a day. What a trip. What an Ironman.
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