Never Quit

Other than the fresh ink on my leg, the soreness is gone. My life has returned to normal. Well, as normal as it can be. You see, last Sunday, 29 August 2010, at 9:35 PM, in Louisville, Kentucky, I became an Ironman. That was a moment that I can promise you I will never forget. A moment that changes each person who experiences it...forever.

No matter what happens for the rest of my life, I am, and always will be, an IRONMAN. It can't be taken away. A lot like becoming an Eagle Scout, an Army Ranger, a college graduate, or a President, becoming an Ironman is permanent. Once...always. There is a sense of comfort one feels when earning acceptance into an elite group, the entry into which is long, challenging, and rewarding. That's exactly what this is. When I looked into the faces of other medal holders post-race, we read each other's faces, and without a word, communicated thousands.

But I'm putting the cart before the horse, or this case, the run before the bike. Let me start from the beginning.

This Ironman dream started many years ago, but never become an actual tangible thing until about 3 years ago. I ran my first marathon in March of 2007, and from that moment, I knew what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. With barely adequate training, which would come to be almost a trademark for me, I ran a 3:44. Two days later, on my 26th birthday, I decided I would run 30 marathons before I turned 30. I had tossed around the idea of running an Ironman before 30 as well, but wasn't sure. Could I do it? It seemed like a daunting undertaking, to say the least. By 2008, however, it became reality. I was going to run 30 marathons and 1 Ironman in about 3 years. Seemed fairly doable, given the amount of time I had left. Then, in late 2008, my dreams were dealt a crushing blow. I received notification that I would be deploying to Afghanistan, and full-time training would begin in January.

Needless to say, I was depressed. Leaving my family for a year, leaving the sport I love so much, and as it appeared, leaving my dreams to die along the way. But while I was overseas, a new sense of resolve came over me. The desire to succeed became much more powerful than the easy out. To quit...was not an option. I would go ahead with it. ALL of it. This would consist of 26 marathons and 1 Ironman in 51 weeks.

In April I returned from Afghanistan and began my training. I ran 2 marathons within the 2 weeks following my release. I was fairly confident about my abilities to get my running and cycling up to the level in time, but having never really swam more than a few hundred meters, I was somewhat worried about the training involved in the triathlon's first discipline.

In early June, I started my swim training. I BARELY made it 400 meters, about 10% of the Ironman swim. It goes without saying that I was nervous at this point. Over June and July my training progressed as rapidly as I needed it to, and thankfully I was soon swimming over 3,000 meters without stopping. I was not fast by any means, but about 40 seconds per 100 meters under the cutoff time, which was all that mattered to me.

As race day grew closer with each passing minute, it seemed, I became increasingly nervous. The 2 weeks prior to the race I could feel it in my gut constantly. This was huge. I knew it. Everyone that takes on this outrageous endurance event knows it. When it comes to extreme sports, it doesn't get any more extreme than this. You want adrenaline? I could have bottled a gallon of it in the hour before I got in the water.

RACE DAY:

Everything was meticulously planned, down to the minute. Transition had been set up the day before, I was all set to be there at 4:30 to fill my bottle and pump my tires, then head on to the swim start to be bodymarked. There were a lot more markers than I thought there would be, and the guy that marked me thought it was funny that I have the words "I AM" tattooed on my left calf. It read "I AM 29" after he added my age, and he showed some of the other volunteers who had a chuckle as well.  I told him that very soon I would be finishing the sentence.

After an hour of sitting around on the concrete in the dark, trying to keep my stomach where it belongs, we finally started packing the line in to get closer to the swim start. Another 30:00 of nervous anticipation, and I hear the opening chords of "Don't Stop Believin'". The hair on the back of my neck stood up immediately, and so would have the hair on the rest of my body, if I had any. I had been near tears at many times that morning. Had it not been for the dozens of hardened athletes all around me, all of whom it seemed had done more than their share of Ironmans, and my own hard core attitude, I would have dropped to a knee and cried like a baby. If anyone can seriously tell you that an Ironman is not a deeply emotional experience, I would question the existence of that person's character.  I can tell you with absolute certainty that I will never hear that song the same way again.

The victory of the day was not simply a goal for me, it was a foregone conclusion. I had to make it. After all, I'm doing this for my brothers. Those that laid down everything they had in service of our great country. The money I raise doing these races, goes to help, in some way, the families of those many brave men and women, as well as those wounded in action. So you see, in many ways, I never believed there was any other option. Come hell or high water, I would see that finish line, claim what is mine, and bring my brothers home.