In 1996, I was introduced to Ironman Canada, one of the most celebrated days in endurance racing: Swim 2.4 miles, bike 112 miles, run 26.2 miles. A gene in my DNA began gasping for air to race. The year after signing up and training, I was finally lined up for the 7 AM start, ready to make the cut-offs, at 9:20 for the swim, 5:30 for the bike and Midnight to be great for all-time. At the report of the cannon, 1800 believers raced into the depths of Lake Okanagan. Neck deep into the days expectations, triathletes crowded each other for open water that didnt exist. Giant waves rolled under us. I didnt know it was going to be a metaphor for rest of the days pain, highs and lows. I covered the bike quickly, excited to see what happened next, not appreciative that it wasnt always that easy. Hydrating and eating on the bike helped me to pedal to the start of the run. The penmanship in my stride started like an eloquent letter written to my new love. A smile in my heart lifted my legs like a little boy tugging on a balloon. As I pushed longer and harder though, my hopes pushed me away. Now my confession was incriminating and the interrogation of doubts escalated. Spectators cheers sounded like condolences. They saw my Finish, still 14 miles to go. Running on expectations and grit wasnt working. In lost defiance, I was going to quit half-way home, ushered by anger and resentment. I was determined to walk off the course...that is, before my dream was resurrected. The physical act of turning for home flipped a switch that allowed me to absorb the pain and move forward. Those worries dissolved under the wash of sweat, behind the locomotion of my body, guided by my heart. That was 1997. See you in six weeks #IMAZ...
Posted on: Sat, 04 Oct 2014 04:22:17 +0000
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