“I firmly believe that
any man's finest hour, the greatest fulfillment of all that he holds dear, is
that moment when he has worked his heart out in a good cause and lies exhausted
on the field of battle - victorious.” – Vince Lombardi
Ever since I started to race Ironman, I have strived for the
above quote. That feeling of purity; Pure exhaustion, pure joy, pure effort. In
Ironman Florida last year, after 10 years of racing, I finally was immersed in
that feeling. After that day, it’s almost as if I was satisfied with triathlon
and Ironman. No more demons in my head and no more disappointment in myself. I
could walk away from triathlon and act like a proper adult and be totally cool
with it all. But let’s be honest, I’m not sure I could ever act like a proper
adult. Instead of packing it in and finishing with the best Ironman race of my
life, I figured what the hell?! Let’s give Hawaii another go.
The Florida race changed everything about my preparation for
Hawaii. If I was forced to take that hard look in the mirror and have a 12-step
moment of admittance, I would admit that I am an exercise slacker. Just like
all the years of soccer, I worked hard. Just barely hard enough to keep
improving. And while I worked hard (ish), I sure bitched about it. A lot. However,
for this buildup to Hawaii, it was as if the shift change was just acceptance.
No bitching at WJones for the hard schedules, or if he understood what it was
like to be in a hot ass garage on the computrainer for 3x20min. Instead I just trusted
WJones, and I trusted that the work he prescribed was the work required to have
a good race in Hawaii. After all, while I’d put it together a complete race on
the beautiful shores of Panama City Beach, the 140.6 miles of Kailua – Kona is
a totally different beast.
Now before you yawn from that monster paragraph above,
please understand that the tale of the Ironman Hawaii cannot be told without
the groundwork of what it took to get there. The race is only the tip of the
iceberg. I got my ass kicked in Hawaii the first time, but I was determined to
flip the script this time. Obsessed is usually pitched in a negative
connotation, but that was me to the T. I pulled every magazine I had (I am
somewhat of a hoarder) with any Ironman Hawaii information in it to re-read. I
scoured the Internet for old interviews, articles and comments from Peter Reid
(who in my opinion is the most methodical IM Hawaii champion ever) or Torbjorn
Sinballe (a big guy who like myself has struggled in the heat). Jones cooked up
crazy treadmill hill workouts, and big rides where I just crushed myself. I
looked through UFC fighter’s diets to understand cutting weight for the race
more completely. I took advantage of Chevron’s health and wellness program to
meet with a superb nutritionist. And when I asked Molly the most embarrassing
question I think any Cajun guy could, “Is it possible to do this training, keep
my energy and drop my weight by going vegetarian?” she never so much as batted
an eye. The nutritional guidelines she put together for me were perfect. I’ve
never felt so good, and I’ll be forever grateful for her time and guidance. I
quit listening to the radio, and downloaded every podcast with Hawaii and
Ironman in the description. Looking back, it was all encompassing and
truthfully exhausting. But I knew that this might be the last time I’ll ever
get to race Hawaii, and nothing is guaranteed. If I prepared as perfectly as I
could, the only thing that’s certain is that I’ll have an opportunity to have a
good race. But if my preparation were shit, then I’d be guaranteed to have a
miserable race. With all this preparation, research and focus, I knew that
there was one stone that I had to turn over before I got to tread water in the
bay.
Everyone talks about the heat and humidity of Kona, and yes
it’s hot. But come on, south Louisiana is the place Lucifer comes for summer
vacation. So there was not really much of a change from being at home to being
in Kona. I arrived Sunday, but it seemed like a lifetime away from the race.
More important than getting rid of the travel legs or adapting to the sun’s
strength, I knew that I had to make peace with the island. Now before you call
me a stoned-out hippie, there is something about this island. When I first read
Mark Allen talk about it, I said the same thing in my head about him. “Oh, easy
on the new-age hippie sauce buddy.” However after spending time here, I knew
that this island’s energy is like a mirror into your own soul. I knew that I
had to accept that I did the best preparation that I could, worked my hardest,
and in the end this may not be enough. I made peace with this feeling that the
island may win again, and that is ok. Because the fun isn’t in the result, but
the fun has been in the journey. And I gotta be cool with that. After I made peace
with this and the island, it was time to focus on the task at hand.
The second time around, it just seemed like everything was
easier. You get a lay of the land, know where to eat (Da Poke’ Shack
EVERY-DAY!), how to maneuver around all the craziness of Ali’i drive, and
generally get it all figured out. I hit up The Coffee Shack and Kona Joe, which
to me are mandatory spots to check out. This year I mostly stayed away from Ali’i,
Dig Me Beach, Lava Java and the expo. As a triathlon geek, it’s hard not to
walk around and mix it up in that area with the sport’s fast and famous. I
think the closest that I got race week was having lunch with Larkin Carter at
Lava Java. I didn’t pick the place, but the food was good. While we were eating
lunch, in addition to your food you could taste the nervous energy from all the
racers in there as well. One last
place on my short list that I had to hit up was Mark Andrews’ condo. Who is
Mark Andrews, you ask? Do you ride a speed concept? Have you ever watched a
Trek YouTube? Chances are 100% you’ve seen him. He is one of the masterminds
behind the speed concept, and is like a Doc Brown style mechanic. The guy is a
mad genius, and I needed his help. I broke a stem bolt right before shipping my
bike to Hawaii (via Tri-bike transport and HIGHLY recommended) and it needed to
be replaced. Lisa got my part to Lafayette before I got on the plane, so I had
it with me and fully intended to replace it once I got my bike. Not on Mark’s
watch! He told me that it was no problem, and to just come back in the morning.
The bike would be race ready and tuned up. It was an awesome gesture of
kindness from Mark, and it allowed me to just save a smidgeon of energy here
and there by not having to fuss with it. After I ran my mandatory errands, I
just kind of sat around the rest of the week. Well, there was that quick little
trip to the expo to hustle up some cool swag and free gear. Because at the end
of the day, I’m from Louisiana. And we have Mardi Gras. Free stuff is a way of
life.
My parents and Elyse arrived Thursday. They were
entertaining like always. There is nothing I love more than seeing people who
just pulled 16 hours worth of flying with minimal sleep and hygiene. As their
taxi driver, I always ask the same stupid question, “So where do ya’ll wanna
go?” Easy dumb ass, to the condo. To sleep. Or translated into the Bear’s (my
dad’s) language, “Buddy, we are gonna catch some zzz’s. We’ll hit the farmer’s
market tomorrow.”
Friday is the day that everything gets real. As you wheel your bike toward check-in,
you look around and see that the face of Ali’i and the competitors is changing.
There is no more expo, no more athlete or companies swarming twitter offering
free stuff and invitations to parties. People you see on the street have that 1,000-mile
stare. You know that pit of the stomach feeling that you got when the middle
school bully told you he was gonna whoop your ass, and the teacher made you go
on the playground? Well, that feeling didn’t go away. It just laid in
hibernation for 25 years.
And the intensity is no greater than athlete / bike / gear
check-in. In reality, it’s a comical circus of shenanigans but it sure doesn’t
feel that way. There are people running around trying to give you t-shirts or
hats for riding a certain bike, or wheels. There are gaggles of people who are
tallying what frame you are riding, wheels on your bike, saddle you sit on, group
set, etc. I mean it’s the closest this country bumpkin will ever get to a red
carpet walk. And while I laughed about it while shooting that video (you know,
the fishbowl video where I filmed the people who were staring / filming me),
it’s highly uncomfortable and just taking that anxiety to another notch on the
totem pole. Getting through transition and bike check-in as quickly as possible
was a high priority. The quicker I could wrap it all up, the quicker I could
remove myself from this mosh pit of anxiety.
Despite the horrendous condo bed and lack of air
conditioning, sleep came pretty easily Friday night. However, Saturday’s 4am alarm
was about 10min after that snooze fest. I tried to pretend I could eat, but it
wasn’t happening. So I slugged down 4 Pediasure’s, ate an egg on top of rice
and got the hell out of Dodge. Or actually the hell into Dodge, since the Bear
and I got into the Dodge caravan and headed down Ali’i drive to the pier. That
ride to the race start is always awkward, no matter who you’re with or how many
times you’ve raced. Someone you love is driving you down to a spot where they
know in the very best case scenario that you are gonna get your ass kicked. And
at the very worst case, well, no one ever wants to acknowledge that the worst
case could actually happen to them.
A lot of people think I’m being a prima-Johnna when I draw
the parallel between Ironman and what it must be like in the UFC. Minus the
obvious blows to the head and never having to be across the fence from someone
named “Spider” or “Bones”, they have a lot of similarities. The walk through
body marking to “the octagon” of the pier is a deafening silence. You try to
feign confidence, contain the anxiety by putting in the earphones and getting
out the swagger. But you don’t dare make eye contact, as you are certain the
person you lock eyes with will see through your bullshit. You weigh in. The doctor
talks to you but it’s as if you don’t even know he’s there. The looming battle
is getting more real by the moment, and it’s all consuming. That first cannon
firing for the pro start almost frightens you out of your swim skin. It’s the
triathlon equivalent of that cage locking behind you. No turning back now.
There’s only one way to freedom, and it’s 140.6 miles that way.
The mean mugging continues while we tread water in the pier.
Thousands of heads bobbing up and down in the water, all with a gunfighter’s
trigger finger and waiting to be released onto the course. Those paddle
boarders and referees must say 200 times in the span of 15 minutes “BACK UP!
BEHIND THE BOUY! YOU WILL BE DISQUALIFIED!” No one listens, as everyone refuses
to give one inch to someone that they have never met. I listen to blatant lies
“I’m going to swim an hour.” Nope, you’re a liar. I detected the shake in his
voice, I better get in front of this kid. He’s gonna panic 400 yards in. The
years slugging it out in this mass start swim arena teach you a few things. You
learn to pick out the contenders from the pretenders. I know I’m ready for a
57-58 minute swim. Jessica threw her best stuff at me all buildup and I took
it. That feeling in my stomach is back, but before I could acknowledge it BOOM!
All hell broke loose.
Somehow starting on the left side of the buoy was a stroke
of luck and genius. I got 10, then 15, then 25 strokes in a rhythm before I got
smacked. This swim is in stark contrast to 2011, where I got to experience what
would happen if a mosh pit turned into a bar fight. Sure enough, 500 yards in,
people started to implode. I’m trying to pick my way through the shrapnel,
deciding to try and make that front group. But the front group is like that
mirage you see on the road during a scorching summer day. It isn’t there. And
if you do ever catch them, then why would you swim with them? You’re going
faster. So I just tried to get into a rhythm and head toward the turn buoy.
When I got to the buoy, it was as if I got my entire swim
beating at once. Some guy thought it would be comical to keep swimming wide,
and then randomly slam into me. Each time, I backed off and allowed him to swim
in front of me. After the third ramming, I dropped back and went to work on
this kid’s feet. Every stroke, tickle his feet. Every stroke, smack his ankles
to throw off his kick. I’m a gentleman most of the time, but I am not afraid to
use the tricks I have up my sleeve. After about 10 minutes of this back and
forth, I had enough. I figured if I accelerated I would get past this
Martinsville paint trading and get back to swimming. The last bit of swimming
had me a bit bummed. As I was stuck in what I thought was no-man’s land. Not
fast enough to be with “that group” I saw just up the water, and ahead of the
demolition derby behind me. Using my highly skilled predictive swim model
(patent pending), where I judged the gap versus the contact and my perceived
time in the water divided by my start position squared to derive a time that
put me at or around 1:03 from my estimation. So when I got out of the water and
saw a 57, I went with the only thing I could think of “HELL YEAH!”
Transition was a mad house as usual, and this year I added a
“fantastic” twist. I was going to try and put on a top that was dry, while I
was wet. I mean, I even did practice runs in the condo, developed a proprietary
folding pattern that would expedite the donning of said aerodynamic and (most
importantly) sun protecting top. Well, the best laid plans of mice and men….
left me frustrated and tangled up, but fully dressed and onto the bike.
Remember that demolition derby guy? Well, apparently I will not be getting a
Christmas card from him because he punched me in the back as I was standing at
my transition spot grabbing my bike. I kind of laughed because I knew the feet
/ ankle routine worked. Besides, bitches and punks hit people when they aren’t
looking. I’ve got bigger fish to fry.
In 2011 I flatted 3 times in the first 2 miles. No, that is
not a typo. So needless to say, I was holding my breath until we descended off
of Palani. I swam a 57, and got out of T1 in 1:01:00 so the racecourse wasn’t
too bad. But coming back down the hill from the out and back was the angry mob.
And they were angry. On a good day, if the wind is right and God smiles
favorably upon me, I can do 300 watts for 10 minutes no problem. Well, I was
holding 300 on the climb and people were coming by me so fast that I looked
down no less than 3 times to see if the brake was rubbing. That first hour was
like a Soul Train dance line moving to the music of “Drop John”. I came through
the first hour at a pace that would give me a 4:30:00 bike split, and people
were blistering by me. One guy who was particularly entertaining was wearing a
Michigan Wolverines tri kit, and weaving in and out of the reflectors on the
road as he tried to pass people. I didn’t know whether to laugh or fear for my
life. Another person of interest was a guy I met a few days ago. I recognized
him because of his kit, introduced myself and chatted him up a bit. Just as I
was going to leave, he asked, “What age group are you racing?” I said 30-34, to
which he replied, “Oh, I’m sorry.” Huh? What are you sorry for? That my
dashingly handsome looks and baby blue eyes make me look like a 20-24 thoroughbred?
No, John, in the world of edgy triathlon smack talk I believe it means he is
apologizing in advance for crushing your age group dreams. Well, that guy passed me too. It kind
of made me angry, but then I realized that if he could really predict the future
like that (him beating me), then I should ask him for the next Powerball
numbers. And that feeling of being a Powerball winner killed off the anger.
Really during the first 1.5 hours, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I was
holding good watts, watts that I know I can hold and run well. But there were
mobs of people dropping me. And I knew it wasn’t my weak descending skills as I
made a deal with myself pre-race to descend like a proper bike racer. So if I
wrecked then I went down more like James Dean, less like Steve Carrel. All I
could do is rest my belief in that the other racers passing me would either
blow up, or were just better than me. The pace we kept down the Queen K highway
was still batshit crazy. Turning onto the road headed to Hawi is where it went
from straight speed, to brute strength.
The climb to Hawi isn’t that bad, but it’s sneaky. You just
keep climbing and climbing and climbing. Sometimes you’re going fast, then it’s
like you are standing still. Then the random crosswind gives you a sober slap
across the face for daydreaming. You keep looking down at your cassette, as if
looking and wishing will somehow sprout another sprocket on the cassette. Then
you’re stuck in between the big and small chainring in front. The big is faster
but noisier and more painful. The smaller gives you a fluid pedal stroke but
you’re losing ground. Things are starting to heat up, and you’re just getting
grumpy. Like that tight pair of underwear that just keeps riding up, things are
getting uncomfortable. Just as the aggravation is starting to boil over, you
see that car coming toward you with the massive Timex clock on top and
immediately you feel giddy like Christmas morning.
For me, the coolest thing about Hawaii is that I’m racing,
but I am still a fan. It is so cool to geek out and see all the guys / girls
you read about, look up to, cyber stalk for equipment choices, prototype
equipment, etc slugging it out on the same tarmac you are suffering on. You may
only see them for a snippet, but it’s an all access pass to the levels of pain
some of them go in the race. And this year, there was no more vivid memory
etched in my brain than Andreas Raelart pedaling at 6mph with his feet on top
of his clipped in shoes, holding the bullhorn bars, helmet cocked to the side
and head hanging dejectedly. He was weaving like a downhill skier carving fresh
powder. He was a knockout casualty of the day, and a cruel reminder to me that
I need to race my own race no matter what.
When we bombed down Hawi, I just gave into the fear that if
I crashed on this decent I would definitely break my collarbone in the best scenario.
Worst case is that the road rash would not allow me to wear a shirt for several
months. Let it go, and let the bike go. I can’t say that there weren’t scary
moments, but once I made peace with the consequences, I got to kind of started
to enjoy flying 40+ mph down the hill on two skinny tires 2.5 feet off the
ground.
I came through the 100-mile mark in 4:12:00. HOLY WOW! I’ve
definitely slowed since the first hour, but that was still brutally fast in my
book. The bad news was that the wind was picking up. I was a little behind on
taking in enough water, and after 4 hours in the saddle, well the natives were
restless. In short, the last 12 miles took me 46 minutes. However, I did gun it
once I knew I had a shot of riding under 5 hours. Yes, it’s immaterial and
vain, but it’s my sand box and that’s what I did. I came flying into transition
in 4:58:00. MISSION ACCOMPLISHED! Bike hand off to the volunteer. Uh lady, for
your own safety and well-being please don’t touch those shoes…. never mind.
Oh sweet mother in heaven, that plastic chair in T2 was more
comfortable than any Lay-Z-Boy I’ve ever plopped my rear down into. I just
wanted to sit and reminisce for a bit, but I knew all too well that this fight
still had two more rounds. My plans were to “lose” rounds 1 (swim) and 2 (ride
out to Hawi), and win rounds 3 (Back from Hawi) and 4 (Run to energy lab) while
winning round 5 (Energy lab to home) convincingly. Well, I accidently won round
1, and got into a slugfest in round 2 while still losing. Round 3 was a draw.
Now it was time to see what I actually had left for this marathon.
Against my better judgment, I ran with a GPS to keep my
knockout punch in my bag of tricks until the time was right. So 7:00 pace it
was until the energy lab or the wheels fell off; whichever came first. And
along Ali’i, it was all rose petals and fairytales. I was actually doing it!
7:00 pace would give me a 3:03:00 marathon, and that would be a massive run PR
for me and convincingly catapult me through my age group. I saw my parents on
the way out and back. Stanley, Tonia, Smitty and Shawn near Lava Java. And that
smokin’ hot lady I call “WOMAN! NO BUTTER ON THE TOAST!” ok, ok. I saw Elyse
right before I turned up Palani. I couldn’t believe it; I was doing what I said
I would do. Here it was. I was a little over the 7:00 pace, but well within
tolerance. And seeing Elyse being so positive and excited put some fire in my
belly heading up Palani.
I don’t know why, but it was never in the cards for me to
walk up Palani. I did a ton of crazy “sweaty man flinging sweat off the
treadmill” hill runs at Red’s. I was ready for Palani. But in the face of
danger, as Tin Cup would say, I laid up. I played it safe. I walked up. I don’t
know if I would do it again. I don’t even know if it affected the race at all.
But I know that I think about that moment, and how it defined the race for me.
It was an outward example that today I was racing with my head instead of my
heart.
Off of Palani and onto the Queen K, things were a bit slower
but still good. Casualties of the pros were starting to show up. Jodie Swallow
was laying in the median with cold towels all over her. There were quite a few
that were shuffling, head down and defeated. And misery loves company. So I had
to almost say out loud to myself that we were not stopping to “kick it with the
homies”. We had a job to do, and we needed to run. Mile 13 was when I started
to wobble the foundation a little bit. The pace started creeping in the 7:30’s
to 50’s when running. Add that to walking the aid stations for ice, and we are
falling off. Then the positivity kicks in. If I could run 3:15, in Hawaii, that
would be badass. Just keep running little buddy. And when that Dr. Phil stuff
didn’t work, I just went back to the only thing that ever works. I counted my
foot strikes. 1 to 20. Start over. And again. And again. The melodic rhythm and
routine of it all just quieted my mind. Before I knew it I was in the energy
lab. But now I was desperately looking forward to each aid station so that I
could have a break. Not because I was cramping. No, I convinced myself that I
was “racing smart” by walking the aid stations. And oh sweet Jesus did walking
feel good! The energy lab was uneventful, except that I saw a familiar face
right before the energy lab turnaround. Ole’ “Sorry” was right there, and it
was clear his doors were blown clean off. I wanted to say something, and in a
past life I probably would’ve. But I had my own demons to wrestle with, and I
knew that this island could turn around and bite me in the ass at any
moment. So I didn’t even
acknowledge him. As Maverick would say, “Just fly right by.”
I had a quick picnic of Red Bull on ice at the energy lab
aid station, and trudged out of the energy lab hole. It was getting late into
the run, and I was running desperately low on resolve and energy. All I wanted
so desperately was to have a great race here. 2011 just quietly taunted me in
the shadows. No way someone like me could have a good race at Hawaii. I’m a
fraud, a cherry picker. I never even deserved to go in 2011, and the race let
me know. How arrogant of me to think 2013 would be any different. I just didn’t
have what it takes to go well in Hawaii. I have no endurance pedigree, and I am
no elite athlete. This is the big boy table, and I need to be sitting outside
with the kiddos. No matter what you do, the voices in your head will tell you
all that. After a while, you just have to quit listening. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7,
8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 1, 2, 3, ….. to just tune out
the noise. Get back to basics. In one hour, this race and your season will be
over. But you will live with the effort you gave in your heart forever. That’s
what I focused on. Not a time, not a “LOOK AT ME NOW MO’ FO’S!” but an effort
that I could hold in my heart and be proud of. An effort that would let me be
at peace. An effort that I knew was complete and genuine.
I just threw myself down Palani. FTW! I’m running for this.
If I fall or cramp, or eat a mouth full of asphalt, it will be at full tilt. I
saw Elyse one last time. She said she didn’t cry, but I know she did. There it
was, the last chapter of my race. The finish line, and the knowledge that I
gave it my full effort. I just ran. Maybe a bit too hard, maybe a bit too fast
to savor the moment. What was I running for anyway? The difference between 52nd
and 54th in my age group? 43 seconds on my finisher’s photo? Nope. I
was running for me. I was running to empty the tank, and cross the line
exhausted; victorious.
There are so many people that I have to thank for getting me
to the start line of all these races and giving of themselves so that I can go
out and chase whatever it is that gets me out of bed every morning.
- First and foremost, my most awesome best friend, manager,
soigner, counselor, assistant, emergency bike mechanic and pillar, Elyse.
- WJones, the mad scientist that has never backed down from
a challenge and has kept pushing me to new heights since he told me that I
sucked in 2010. We talked about a complete performance, and “dropping the mic”
after our best effort. I feel that we did. Best race I could have hoped for
overall.
- My parents for always encouraging me, and never once
telling me “to grow up” or “kids ride bicycles, John”. There is nothing more rewarding to me
than having my parents tell me that they are proud of me. I’m sure that I could
probably skip the 9 hours of self-ass kicking and they would still tell me. But
giving your best effort for them to witness will always hold a special place in
my heart.
- Jessica aka Swim Gurzi. I’m not gonna hug you like Eric
did, but just know that the 57 was your doing. Also know that I’ll celebrate
that for like 3 weeks. Then I have bigger plans (which does include MORE PAIN
and spitting in the pool gutter WAHOO!)
- Lisa, Jason and the crew at Capital Cyclery. There are no
words. 2003 I stumbled in your shop and somehow you could never get rid of me.
Thank you for all you do.
- Mark Andrews at Trek. I have no idea why you look after a
regular old age group Joe like myself, but I appreciate it so much. It makes me
proud to ride a Trek.
- Pat Fellows at Mizuno, Rocketkidz, LA Marathon, FRESH! A
man of a million talents, and someone I’m proud to call a friend. Dude, I don’t
know how Ironman is my 32 miles, or that it is at all. But I’m honored you want
me representing the Runbird, and I can say thank you for keeping me motivated
and moving forward.
- Stanley at Corner Bar. You add to the Lafayette triathlon
group, and are making a positive impact. And it’s not just by dropping people
on the Saturday ride. We are having more people at the time trials than ever. I’m
looking forward to seeing you 5 years into this sport. The sky’s the limit!
- Mark at Precision. Dude, you are a cornerstone of the
triathlon community, and I am humbled that you call me just to see “what’s up.”
I joke calling you the Godfather of triathlon in this town, but it’s true. You
have played a role in making Ironman racing big in our area. Thank you for all
your wisdom, guidance, and even having the stones to tell me to quit being a
head case.
- Mark & Mr. Red at Red Lerille’s. I still can’t believe
you guys gave me a job teaching spin. But I appreciate it, and the opportunity
to be a part of your family. We are spoiled here in Lafayette because your
relentless pursuit of perfection in what a health club should be. Thank you
- Keith Terro at Abshire Chiropractic. Bubba, we did it!
Your crazy voodoo and weekly adjustments kept me cobbled together just long
enough to get it done. Thank you.
- Kris Thibodeaux. If anyone should be fired as a client, it
should be me. Thank you for putting up with my shenanigans, and keeping my
muscles healthy and happy.
- My training buddies who helped me get ready for this. You
know who you are, and I hope that I get to return the favor. You guys / girls
kick ass. Thank you.
So after that long, awards ceremony speech you want to know
“What’s next?” Well, until yesterday, I had no idea what was next. I’ve tried
to retire; I’ve made peace with it after Florida and was ready to move on. But
the sport keeps pulling me back in with its siren song. So in 2014, I will go
back to the roots of triathlon. Where adventure and pushing the limit just to
see what’s possible replaces numbers on a clock and watts on a computer. I got
accepted in the elite pool for the Norseman Xtreme triathlon in Eidfjord,
Norway. Honestly, I’m scared shitless. I know that it’s a monster race, and it will
take a monster effort just to finish. So I know it will get me out of bed in
the mornings. After all, once you find that something, that passion, that fire
that makes you go; you hold onto it. You hold on with two hands and ride the
ups and downs. Because for me it’s in those ups and downs where you have the
quality life moments. Those moments that make you feel alive. As for Kona, will
I be back? Honestly, I don’t know. Kona is a beautiful, cruel, hard ass race.
It will always hold a special place in my heart. As for going back I will not
say never, but it may be a while. For 10 years, I thought that Kona was the
holy grail of triathlon. But to quote Patagonia founder Yvon Chouinard, “The
search for the holy grail? Who gives a shit what the Holy Grail is. It’s the
quest - that’s what’s important. The transformation within yourself is what’s
important.” And I’m interested to see what else is out there; what else is out
there to continue the quest…
Thanks for reading
