Although I could be talking about love, rejection, loss, a hangover or financial ruin, I specifically refer to the physical sensation while participating in and immediately upon completion of, the event known as Ironman.
It fucking hurts.
If one is fortunate enough, has impeccable DNA, a bullet-proof disposition and courage to spare, not to mention the time and cost of training and participation, one is asked to traverse 140 miles of mind numbing, muscle shredding, spirit testing suffering. The event, a 2.4 mile swim, 112 bike ride and a full 26.2 marathon, is basically designed as a test of will. It comes down to the simplicity of ‘will you - or won’t you?’
Will you dedicate one solid year, or more, to the training necessary to ‘endure?’
Will you have the discipline required to rise before dawn and hit the pool, club or track?
Will you find the inner strength necessary to train hard, eat right, sleep well and still maintain your professional status and family obligations?
Will you be wise enough to budget your time and money, seeing this as a hobby and not a profession?
Do you currently understand the difference between muscular soreness and injury?
Do you have ONE COMPELLING REASON why you should take the first step down this daunting path?
Because, dear friends, if you do not, you are doomed. Sure there are a few physical specimens whose Olympian parentage passed along the cellular combination of fast twitch muscle fiber, a lean BMI and superior cardio capabilities to waltz through it, but 99% of us, as Sisyphus, will be tasked with rolling the boulder up the hill for what seems like eternity. This is where the myth becomes the reality. A ‘reasonable’ finishing time is over ten hours. Ten hours of low intensity cardio. Those of you that participate in spin classes averaging an hour can go ahead and imagine ten times that. Ten times. For the sake of comparison the world record, held by the UKs Tim Don is 7:40:23. Daniela Ryf of Switzerland holds the same honor for the gals at 8:26:18. Adding insult to injury in last years Ironman World Championships, the winner in my age group ran an incredible 11:00:54. Forgivingly the AG I will next be competing in was won with a 11:55:23. So there is that. My PB is ten hours, done back in 2002 when I was a spry fifty year old, with a soon to be diagnosed heart arrhythmia.
In this event, after a while, sometimes three hours - sometimes eight - the suffering becomes comical. Why would any sane person voluntarily sign up for something so ridiculously outlandish?
I ask that of myself often. I have completed a dozen of them. In the last one, in Pentiction, British Columbia, Canada, I committed the unpardonable offense of dropping out five miles into the run. Because my back hurt. The humiliation of this has lived in the great room of my psyche ever since. It greets me every day with a sarcastic ‘good morning loser, what are you going to quit today?’ reminder of my weakness.
I have, over the years, reconciled with it. We have a deal, negotiated after years of bitter dispute. The terms of the peace accord are straightforward and simple. While I appreciate being reminded of my failures on a daily basis, as long as there is a thread of hope remaining, the slightest possibility, the proverbial long shot feasibility, of doing another Ironman (with the specific goal of qualifying for the World Championships), I will focus more on my faith in the future than the pain of the past.
One of my favorite teachers was fond of saying that there is no pain in the present moment. At some mile marker between the starting gun and the finish chute the wisdom in that reality overwhelms whatever suffering has come from doubt and fear.
To get there one must understand hurt.
If you don’t have occasional failures, you are not pushing yourself enough. A person is not defined by their failures or mistakes.
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