See Me Squeegee

October 25, 2013.  8 days before Ironman Florida.

Markus (my boss, who’s fascinated by endurance sports training programs):  So…your last weekend before the race.  You’re tapering – what are your workouts this weekend?

Me: I’ll back off to one workout a day and relatively short.  Probably a 14-mile run on Saturday and a 2 or 2.5 hour bike on Sunday.

Markus (laughing): I see those 13.1 stickers everywhere.  You realize that people put stickers on their car for doing your taper workouts, right?

This is a tough post to write.  People have asked me to write about Ironman and I’ve never been sure how to write it.  Mainly because of things like that conversation.  Now, I’m insanely proud of finishing Ironman triathlons.  I love going to swim workouts or group bike rides or 10Ks and having people see my Ironman tattoo and come up to talk about it.  I love that it’s a dream for people – it was and still is for me, too – and that if you have tear ducts, a TV, and a soul you’ve probably cried watching NBC’s Ironman coverage each winter.  But I hate the idea that Ironman makes anyone feel less accomplished for their finish lines.  I hate when people apologize for or downplay their endurance races with that caveat “I know it’s no Ironman, but…”  And I actually think this is an important part of the whole Ironman story.  So let me start here.

When I smile at the notion that people put stickers on their cars for finishing fractions of an Ironman, it’s not at all because I don’t respect that accomplishment.  I do – I’ve finished just as many half-marathon races in my life as full Ironmans (3 of each). And all of them were hard.  I’d say that three finish lines stand out as the most amazing feelings of my life: my first marathon (Chicago, 2001); qualifying for the Boston Marathon (at the Bayshore Marathon in Traverse City, Michigan in 2005), and my first Ironman (Ironman Texas in 2011).  And they all have one thing in common – they were the exact moments that what had always seemed like a dream to me became real.  They were all dreams come true.

The distance didn’t matter as much, the time I spent training or racing or holding on for dear life as muscles fatigued and self-doubt crept in didn’t matter.   It was about setting a lofty goal, working like crazy to accomplish it, daring to dream big, and seeing it through to that final step.  26.2 or 140.6, all those finish lines felt the exact same.  A fraction of me thought I could do it and willed the rest of me to make it happen.  All finish lines, all dreams, matter.  And I think I speak for almost all Ironmen in that.

The fact that an Ironman contains a full marathon, the fact that my rest days are sticker-worthy to lots of people, that doesn’t belittle half-marathons or marathons or “metric century” 62-mile rides at all.  Ironmen don’t disrespect those distances in any way – in fact, I hold those numbers in high regard.  That’s what makes Ironman Ironman.  It’s not “a long triathlon” – it’s the blending of some insane races in their own right into one “I can’t believe I’m doing this” day.  2.4 miles is a monster swim.  Riding a full century – 100 miles – and then tacking on 12 more for good measure is straight insanity.  And to quote Boston-accented Julie Andrews about 26.2 – fah is a long, long way to run.  Ironman doesn’t make those distances less significant; Ironman is what it is because those distances are so incredible.  And any time you push your finish line further or faster than you imagined possible, that’s amazing.

Around the same time, earlier this month, that I finished my third Ironman, Justin Bieber was in the news for falling asleep while a prostitute in Brazil posted pictures of their dalliance to Twitter.  And hear me out – the two events are actually kind of related.  I finished my first marathon at age 23 and it was an unbelievable experience.  I bought the race jacket and wore it everywhere.  I wore marathon t-shirts to every 10K I could find for months after.  My office had a sendoff and a welcome-back party for me and I soaked it all in.  Then I ran two more, finally lowering my time.  Then I got serious and dropped over 10 minutes, then over 20 minutes off of that, and then I saw Boston in my sights and took a couple swings and finally qualified and raced it well.  All by age 27.   And Biebs?  By the time he was 16 he could walk into any cheerleading practice or homecoming dance in the world and leave with the captain and the queen…both if they were different people.  Within months he probably realized he could do the same thing with sorority houses, Miss America pageants, and Playboy mansions.  So he’s out there pushing the limits – albeit in strange, strange ways – and that’s what led me to Ironman, too.

Maybe a better analogy is that old Rodney Dangerfield line “I”d never stoop so low as to join a club that would stoop so low as to accept me as a member.”  Once you dream the impossible dream and see it come true, eventually it becomes the new normal and you need to dream a new one.  It doesn’t invalidate the old one – for Bieber, Selena Gomez is still straight up gorgeous and for me, I don’t know that I’ll ever be as truly proud of myself as I was when I crossed that finish line in Grant Park in 2001 – but instead in a way it’s a celebration of it.  You want that feeling of (kind of anti-Dangerfield) joining another elite fraternity, another elite realm that you never dreamed of.  26.2, 140.6, ultramarathon, Appalachian Trail, Everest…it’s not the actual finish line that matters.  It’s that you have your eyes on a finish line.  Ironman, right now, is mine.

May 21, 2011.  The Woodlands, TX.  Sometime around 3:30pm, somewhere in the relative shade of a handful of trees that only Charlie Brown could love.

“How are you holding up?” she says, hand on my shoulder as she shuffles past.  I’ve slowed to a walk again, soaking in the tiny bit of shade and breeze for just a second.  Already today I’ve swam farther than I ever have without at least stopping at a wall for an interval and biked farther than I’ve ever biked period.  I’m about 5 miles into a marathon, and although I’ve run several of those the highest temperature I’ve ever run one in may have gotten near 85 degrees but only barely, as that one (Chicago 2010) started at 7am on a day that maxed at 85.  It’s now, depending on which bank display thermometer you believe, about 95 degrees and the sun is still high in the sky. I’m not sure I have anything in the tank, but I’m only about 21 miles away from the finish line, a finish line that you have to start 140.6 miles away from and register for a year’s worth of training in advance.  After she’s run by I finally recognize her; she’s from my dinner table at the athlete welcome dinner two nights prior.  She and her husband – they’re from Austin –  have each done 4 or 5 of these. And he’s the one who, seeing my Boston Marathon t-shirt*, told me what keeps them coming back.  “I’ve done Boston.  I’ve done the New York Marathon.  I’ve climbed famous mountains and raced famous bike courses.  And I’ve done several Ironman races.  Only Ironman still gives me goosebumps.  This is your first one and it’s scary as hell; this is my (let’s say fifth) and it’s still scary as hell.  But that’s why it’s fun.  You’ll finish, I’ll finish, and we’ll see each other at another welcome dinner.  But regardless of when it is we’ll still have goosebumps.  That’s why we’re all here.”  

Finally recognizing who she is I pick up my pace.  I want her to know.  I want her to know that I recognize her and appreciate her support, but more than that I want to know her that I’ll see her at the finish line.  “Feeling good,” I say.  “21 miles from a dream come true.”  She’s slowing to walk.  I’m running again.

Some people do Ironman because they’re ultra-competitive.  Some comment wherever they are – in line for bike check-in, in line for pre-race porta-potties in Transition, at the welcome dinner or awards banquet – that you have to be “Type Triple A” to do an Ironman.

I love Ironman because, to me, it’s “above” competitive.  Because we’re all competing against ourselves, against our own hopes and fears and hiccups in training and worries about mechanical trouble on the bike and nagging hamstrings/ankles/knees/IT-bands; because we’re all competing against our own time goals and just-finish goals. Because we’re all in it together.

Today’s NBC Ironman telecast started like they do every year, with Al Trautwig commenting over a scene of pre-dawn in Kona with athletes going through body-marking in the dark, pumping tires and lubing chains and taking deep breaths and stopping to meditate or pray or reflect for a second.  Every year Al Trautwig asks the same profound question well before the sun comes up and the gun fires and the pros hit the water.  “By midnight tonight the athletes will all have their answers, but we must ask the supreme question,” he says, then pauses for effect and says with a surprised tone.  “Why?  Why train for a full year to put your body through 2.4 miles of swimming, 112 miles on the bike, and then finish it off for a marathon.  Why?”

My why?  I want to be one of them.  I want to be an Ironman.  Long-term, the answer is complicated, or at least long winded.  But if you’re at all considering it, if it’s at all in that deep recess of your “someday, maybe, in an ideal world if I had everything else in place and more time to train, I’ve always thought it would be kind of cool to cross that finish line and hear those words – Brian, you are an Ironman – someday” dreamer mentality, go see an Ironman.  Talk to someone with an Ironman jacket or tattoo or t-shirt.  Ironman is the coolest fraternity I can think to join.  Springsteen may have written it for Obama but it applies to Ironman it applies to anything: “We take care of our own.”

Endurance athletes tend to be introverts, so the displays of camaraderie and teamwork can be subtle, but they’re profound. The distance is so extreme, the training is so intense, the day itself is so grueling, and most importantly the finish line itself trumps the clock  and finish order so emphatically that we’re all in it together.  If there’s a feeling better than your own finish line – that last 200 or so yards when you can see the line and you’re among the cheering crowd and Mike Reilly is preparing to say your name and tell you what you’ve waited 140.6 miles to hear – Brian Galvin from Santa Monica, California…you…are….an Ironman! – it’s the finish line in the 11:00 to midnight hour.  You start at 7am and you have exactly 17 hours – until midnight – to finish.  Most of us come in between maybe 12 and 14 hours, by 9pm.  A long, grueling day.  But most of us who have already finished, recovered, and showered come back around 11 for that last hour to cheer in – to will in – those who need all 17.  And it’s electric.

The scene?  Spectators galore, dancing to cheesy club music, clapping and stomping and pounding the bleachers and finishing barricades in rhythm.  Athletes limping their way back, stressing their sore leg muscles to balance on flimsy bleachers and dance with everyone else.  And every time a potential finisher is in sight, the roar builds until we yell in unison with the announcer…You Are…An Ironman! As the world has gotten bigger and interests have gotten more segmented at least it’s my opinion that we’re less connected to each other.  We’ll never *all* watch the final episode or MASH or Roots together again; there will never be another Thriller album that *everyone* owns.  But within the Ironman community – spectators, athletes, and volunteers alike – that last hour is about as close as I’ve ever felt to strangers.  You want everyone to feel that moment of glory, and you want to celebrate it with everyone else that ever has.

The Ironman tradition is a tattoo once you’ve finished one, usually on the back of one of your calves so that other athletes can see it when you pass them on a bike or while running.  During your first Ironman you see hundreds of them on other athletes and they motivate you.  There’s a little envy but there’s more a sense of possibility and relief.   They’ve done it and they enjoyed it enough that they’re back for more.  I want to be one of them, and it’s possible.  And we’re all in this together.  We’re all part of the same team.

They had an awards banquet and athlete celebration event the day after that first Ironman.  Somehow I ended up at a table with most of my table from the welcome dinner, and we all shared war stories from the race.  My Austin friends mentioned, as only Ironman veterans can “we saw that deer in the headlights look on your face the other night, but we knew you’d get here,” adding that they had each seen me multiple  times on race day and felt energized that I – the first timer on our 36-hours-old “team” – was looking so strong.  “Thanks for the inspiration,” they said.  They didn’t have to add “now go out and pay it forward for other first-timers.”  I would, regardless.

Another guy at that table had come straight to the athlete banquet from the hospital.  He had finished the night before, visited the medical tent because he had felt dizzy, and they admitted him to give him full IV treatment for dehydration and exhaustion.  He hadn’t even enjoyed the finish line experience, but he came straight to the athlete party to talk to us all about it.  Six months later – while I was out supporting my dad at Ironman Florida – I bumped into him again, volunteering at *that* awards banquet.  He had already signed up for another Ironman and was volunteering at Florida to get first dibs on registration for that one, too.  We talked like long-lost college friends when in reality we had had one 30-minute meal together lifetime, while he was just leaving the hospital and we were both exhausted like crazy.  It didn’t matter; by that point we were teammates for life.

November 2, 2013.  Mile 105 of the bike.  About 1:45pm.  Panama City, FL.

I’m looking over my shoulder repeatedly.  There’s a cyclist about to pass me and I want to know where he is in case I have to swing wide for a turn or to avoid a pothole or crack in the road.   There’s a massive tailwind and although my quads are aching and my butt is sore from 100+ miles on a bike seat (and my reproductive system has been numb for miles, but Anna Kendrick if you’re reading this it’s back!  Plus I have a really cool medal I could show you…) I’m feeling pretty good with 7 miles until I can kick out of my pedals and get off this godforsaken (and expensive…tri bikes ain’t cheap) bike seat.

Him: You’re clear…I’m just cheating for a minute.   But at least I’m honest, right?  (“drafting” is illegal in Ironman competition, but this late in the race I doubt any referees are looking)

Me: Ah, it’s only cheating if you get caught, right?  And it’s all tailwind…there’s nothing to draft.  Beautiful day for a ride, eh?

Him: Great day.  Really nice course and this tailwind is a great way to finish.

Me: I’m thinking about going for a run when we’re done.  You interested?

Him: Oh, for sure.  Along the beach?  Maybe 20 miles or so?  Or why don’t we just call it an even marathon?

The worst part of an Ironman usually comes somewhere between mile 90 and mile 110 of the bike.  The swim can be choppy and crowded, but it’s over so early in the day that you forget about it well before the halfway point of the bike.  And in a way it’s therapeutic…you’ve been stressing about the race for weeks, you slept maybe 2 hours in fits and starts the night before, and you got to Transition at least 90 minutes before the race started.  The swim is your first opportunity to blow off all of that nervous energy, and since half the goal is to preserve energy for the rest of the race you’re doing a lot of drafting and gliding.  The swim passes quickly, at least in retrospect.  And the run…if anything it regresses to what they call the “Ironman Shuffle”, a slow run-walk, step-by-step to the finish line.  If you made the bike cutoff you still have 6+ hours to get to the finish line to call yourself a finisher.  You’ll get there even if you have to crawl.  But mile 100 of the bike can be rough.  You’ve forgotten mostly about the swim but it happened, and 2.4 miles is an insane workout.  And you’ve ridden your bike farther than most ever will and you’re *almost* done.  The finish line is in sight, but then you have to START a marathon.  For most of the bike you’re only thinking about the bike, but as soon as you let yourself think about the end of the bike – when you’re nearing 100, when you pass 100, when you hand your bike to a volunteer at T2 and they point you to the tent to go change shoes to run – it hits you.  There’s a full marathon to go.  It’s mid-afternoon, you’ve already worked out harder than 98% of the population ever will, and you have to start a marathon.

People often ask “how do you do an Ironman?” or express disbelief at the consecutive distances.  And I think what they’re really after is that moment.  How do you deal with that one moment when you’ve already pushed your body past exhaustion, when you’ve already dug deeper than you knew you could dig to summon the energy to get past the doldrums of miles 60-90 of the bike to get toward that bike finish, and you realize you’re nowhere near done?  Two phrases come to mind – the military’s “embrace the suck” and Nike’s “just do it”.  Honestly, you just do it.  And once you’re a veteran – once you know that it’s more than ‘possible’, it’s ‘probable’ or even ‘definite’ – you embrace the suck.  You laugh it off and invite the guy on the bike next to you to “go for a run”.  But first?  You just do it.

The beauty of the middle of an Ironman – the start and finish lines are the true beauty, but there’s an aesthetic quality to that “athlete’s only” despair/opportunity zone between mile 90 of the bike and the exit of T2 and the run once you’re past the euphoria of the crowds,  too…a beauty that you can only know if you’ve done it – is in the yeoman nature of it.  It’s a lunchpail and shovel attitude…you really only think about the enormity of it a few times, mainly like I said when you’re nearing the end of the bike.  For most of the race your goals are short.  The next aid station. The next corner.  Catching that cute girl ahead of you.

One of my favorite music stories is one I heard on an LA radio station a few years ago.  A guy had bumped into Jackson Browne at an event and wanted to tell him how much his music had influenced him.  “Your music, Jackson – it’s a soundtrack to my life.  I hope you know…you’re the backdrop to meeting my wife, you played at my wedding, I sang your songs to my baby daughter.  You’re the soundtrack of my family’s life.”  And Jackson replied “Too big, man.  Too big.  All I did was sing some songs.”  That’s pretty true of Ironman, too – while Jackson Browne may have been the soundtrack to many of our lives, he can’t think of the enormity of that, and while you’re on mile 103 of the bike of mile 8 of the run you can’t think of the enormity of the whole race, either.  He just wrote some songs; you just put one foot in front of the other.  And what’s amazing to me?  You just do it.  You set smaller goals: you run to the next corner, you run until you count to 100 and then you bargain with yourself to do it again.  You sing song lyrics – maybe some Jackson Browne “Running on Empty” as a soundtrack – and transport your mind away from the grandiosity of the task.  And since you’ve committed yourself to getting there, you get there.

First Sunday of November, 2003; exactly 10 years before I raced Ironman Florida.  Staten Island, NY, in line for a port-a-potty at the start line of the New York City Marathon.

I’m standing with my dad, the second time we’ve been together for the start of a marathon. In a few minutes P. Diddy will cut to the front of our line and use our port-a-potty.  Right now we’re talking to a shopkeeper from the Bronx.  

Him: You’re father and son?

Us: We are.

Him: I’d give anything to run a marathon with one of my kids.  I don’t see my kids much; I wasn’t much of a father but I still love them.  For a time maybe I loved drugs a little more.  But then I woke up one day and looked in the mirror.  Maybe 10 years ago.  I was 50 pounds overweight, at least.  I had been on a binge and couldn’t remember what day it was.  I didn’t know where my family was.  I knew I had to change.

Us: (summoning Jackson Browne) Wow.

Him: I was a mess, but running saved me.  I set a goal, whether it was run a mile or run to the river.  And the next day I did it.  And then I ran further the next day.  I got clean and my running goals helped me.  And I tried to make things right with my family. Running cleared my head and gave me a purpose.  I wouldn’t be alive today if I weren’t here today – I wouldn’t have survived if I didn’t have running, if I didn’t dream about running the New York Marathon.  But I would love someday to run it with my son.  You guys are lucky. I hope you know that.

Us: Wow, that’s amazing.  And we do know…this is a lot of fun.  We hope you do get that opportunity.

Him: And think about this: the best runners in the world are running today.  We’re starting at the same start line as them, running the same course as them.  What other sport in the world do they let you do that?  Can you just go play golf against Tiger Woods?  Can you step on the court with Michael Jordan?  What a sport.  We run against the best in the world…

At my first Ironman expo, I playfully talked trash with Chris Lieto, a pro who had come in second at the World Championships.  He was signing autographs and I saw the tent and walked over.  He asked if I wanted one and I laughed and said “no, actually we’re in the same age group.  I just came to say good luck.”  He laughed and after we talked a couple minutes he said “I like you…you seem like a good competitor.  I’ll look out for you – what’s your race number?”.  I said “969” and he got a cocky smile and said “cool…I’m bib number 1” (the highest seed number).  We shook hands; I didn’t see him on race day.

At my second Ironman, I raced my dad, who was doing his third.  The day I registered for Ironman Coeur d’Alene I texted him “IMCDA – registered!”.  Minutes later he replied “Me too”.  It was on.  I’m a better swimmer even adjusting for the age factor; he’s a slightly better cyclist, and we’re both experienced marathoners.  All day, every turnaround, I’d see him not that far behind me.  I couldn’t let my dad beat me; my body said slow down, walk, but I couldn’t.  I saw him walking when I was around 15 miles into the run and that was the first time – not all day, but in my life – I saw him back down (I should put that in quotes…he still finished a freaking Ironman in under 14 hours).  I waited until I had turned a corner but at least a hundred yards, and finally let myself walk.

At my third Ironman, I was about 9 miles into the run when I saw a familiar-looking face pass me.  I looked closer – she had a seeded, professional number. It was Mirinda Carfrae, who the month prior (last month, actually) had won the Ironman World Championship. She’s the reigning world champion, the best in the world.  I picked up my pace and ran next to her for the next half-mile.  Admittedly, she was on her second loop of the marathon course and I was on my first, and having just won worlds she wasn’t racing hard. But still…  After a half-mile I realized this was probably a little creepy to run stride-for-stride, shoulder-to-shoulder with her, so I lightly patted her on the back and said “Thanks for letting me say I ran with the best in the world for a while”.  She looked back, a little surprised, and said “Thanks for saying that”.

At my fourth Ironman, this coming July in Lake Placid, I’ll race my dad again.  This time he texted me on registration day “IMLP – I’m in”.  These things sell out in minutes.  I was at work.  I dropped everything, got on the website, and snagged a spot.  “Me too – it’s on” I texted back.  My dad has done 3, I’ve done 3, and one of them was together.  My mom has been to all of them; my grandmother and aunt have been to four of the five.  My sister has been to two. And some of the best in the world have raced with us.  It’s a family affair and it’s a world-class event.  That’s Ironman.

I’ve got ice in my veins, blood in my eyes, hate in my heart, love in my mind.  I’ve seen nights full of pain, days of the same, you keep the sunshine, save me the rain.  I search but never find, hurt but never cry, I work and forever try but I’m cursed so nevermind.  And it’s worse but better times seem further and beyond.  The top gets higher the more that I climb. The spot gets smaller, but I get bigger.  Try to get in where I fit in, no room for a ***** but soon for a ***** it be on mother****** but all this bullshit made me strong mother****** – Lil Wayne

It hurts but you’ll never know, this pain I’ll never show.  If only you can see just how lonely and how cold, and frostbit I’ve become.  My back’s against the wall.  When push comes to shove I just stand up and scream f*** them all.   -Eminem

All the above from “Drop the World”.  

Where do you begin to describe Ironman training?  In many ways it’s more of a logistical hassle than a physical toil, if that makes sense.  It just takes a ton of time, and you need pool time, clear roads to bike on, and in lieu of clear roads or daylight you need entertainment for indoor bike trainer rides of an hour up to even 6 or 7.  But like that 100-mile point on the bike, there’s also that mental hurdle to conquer – when you’re riding 50 miles on a Saturday morning you often have to deal with the realization that you have to run when you’re done, then rest and wake up Sunday morning to swim in the morning and bike in the afternoon.  It’s relentless.

A typical mid-training schedule?  4 of the 5 weekday nights you’re doing a 90-minute to 2-hour workout.  One of those nights may be a 2 to 3 mile swim, but if the pool is crowded you’re stuck doing a monster swim early on one of the weekend mornings.  One of those nights you’ll run between 8 and even 12 miles.  The others are probably trainer rides – up to 2 hours while watching Monday Night Football or a college basketball game on ESPN or DVRed episodes of Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune – anything to keep your mind occupied while you grind out miles.  On weekends you usually need to get 2 disciplines per day; I like bike/run on Saturday and swim/bike on Sunday.  If I’m working out on Friday nights – my “rest day” is a floater during the week…sometimes I use it for work (picking up some bike money by tutoring or substitute teaching for the test prep company I work for), other times it’s to hit happy hour with friends or to try to take a girl out, and other times it’s because I’m sitting on the couch in bike shorts or running shoes just totally incapable of summoning the energy to get going, and that leads to an 8pm passout on the couch.

The idea is to get up to 15-20 hours a week of workouts, which sounds almost doable until you realize that 4 nights a week of even 2 hours each night only gets you to 8.  You have to grind weekends, and more than the physical you learn mental toughness…the fortitude to lace up those shoes and go, to answer that alarm clock, to entertain yourself when you’ve been grinding for hours.  Those “Drop the World” lyrics?  Spot on.  All this BS just made me strong MFer, you have to tell yourself while the top gets higher the more that you climb.  But there’s some amazing stuff in there, too – I’ve had days when someone in my mind a 20-mile run was a “rest day”, enough that on my way out the door I shunned sunblock because “it’s not a big deal” (and then proceeded to get torched).  There are days in the pool when you watch from underwater as the early-morning crew leaves and the fashionably-late crowd arrives, and then leaves, before you come up for air.  There are the people that report seeing you out running or biking, and do so so frequently that you seem like a superhero or neighborhood fixture: how are you always running anytime they’re in an out of the neighborhood?

Maybe it’s Stockholm Syndrome but I swear you miss the training after the race.  There’s a pride in that discipline and a feeling of accomplishment and the corresponding easy sleep that comes after it all the time.  I’m two weeks post-Iron right now and tomorrow I’ll swim in the morning and bike on the trainer for all of Sunday Night Football.  I can’t let it slip too much.  It’s so much easier to stay in shape than to get in shape that once you’re there you never want to let it go.

And maybe that brings me back to the beginning.  Why Ironman?  Why endurance sports?  Because for years you dream about that finish line and you put yourself through hell to get there, regardless of whether that finish line is 26.2 or 140.6 or anything in between or beyond.  And 10 miles before the finish line, or 4 weeks before the finish line, you swear you’ll never do it again.  The finish line is exactly that – the finish.  But there’s something magical about that finish line.  Those truly-memorable finish lines – usually the firsts but also the fastests and the other favorites – inevitably lead to the next start line.  The endorphins at that finish line put anything Heisenberg and Pinkman can cook to shame; the first hit is free but then the rest of your life you’re chasing that high, in large part because now you know you can achieve it.  When the impossible becomes possible, then probable, you push the limits of possible even farther.  That’s why I’m an Ironman, and that’s why I keep coming back for more.

October, 2001. The Chicago Marathon Finish Line, Chicago, IL.

Her family, outside the fencing that surrounded the finish line:  You did it!  You did it!

Her (the first time marathon finisher who finished just next to me, seconds ago): I did it!  (searching for words…looking an amazing combination of proud, relieved, and surprised)  I’m…I’m awesome!

She is.  We are.  And we all can be.