Racing Back to Vietnam

by John Pendergrass

  Far and away the best known triathlon is the Ironman triathlon, created in Hawaii in 1978. U.S. Navy Commander John Collins, looking for the ultimate challenge for endurance athletes, came up with the idea of combining the three long-distance competitions held annually on the island of Oahu into one event. The Waikiki Roughwater Swim, the Around Oahu Bike Race, and the Honolulu Marathon were joined into a single competition. The result was a preposterous 2.4 mile swim, 112 mile bike, and 26.2 mile run. By anyone’s reckoning, it was a punishing mixture of events—mile after mile, with no respite from the moving clock; a daunting physical challenge.

  At first, the Ironman triathlon was an oddball event, a strange meeting spot for eccentric endurance athletes—more of a sporting curiosity than an athletic contest. But it didn’t stay that way for long. In 1979, a ten-page story in Sports Illustrated introduced the sporting public to the Ironman, and a year later the triathlon began being televised on ABC’s “Wide World of Sports.”

  The Ironman had arrived.

  Each year, interest in the Ironman triathlon grows around the world, the event has become the gold standard for endurance athletes. Initially staged once a year in Hawaii, the event proved to be so popular that it soon spread to spots around the globe. NBC took over the role of bringing the Ironman story to the world, broadcasting a ninety-minute special each year. The Ironman television special, still going strong decades later, continues to overflow with drama and pathos and is probably one of the most successful infomercials ever created. Every middle-aged man on the planet who watches that television special wants to buy in—and I was no exception.

  At age sixty, I caught the Ironman bug. For most of my life, I had been a runner with little interest in swimming or biking. The Air Force deserves the credit for getting me off the sofa and onto the roads. In flight surgeon’s school, our class had to qualify in a mile-and-a-half run in the August heat of San Antonio. The first couple of miles are always the biggest challenge; once I got past the initial hurdles, adding distance was easy.

  Surprisingly, I was able to keep up the habit in Vietnam. When I got to Da Nang, I mapped out a six mile route around the perimeter of the base that I ran with friends a couple of times a week. Back in civilian life, things were harder to manage. I tried to run on a regular basis, but it was often difficult with a young family and an ophthalmology resident’s schedule. When I began private practice, my life became more predictable and manageable.

  One day, a friend and I set the ambitious goal of finishing the Boston Marathon. I made it on the first try, and within two years was able to drop my time for the marathon to under two hours and fifty minutes. Running provided a certain structure and identity to my life; success or failure was measured in minutes and seconds. It all seemed so simple and straightforward at the time. You did the work and you reaped the rewards.

  When I reached my forties, the long, gradual, inevitable descent began—that slow, annoying decline in physical performance that is documented by an unforgiving clock. At first, it’s barely noticeable and easy to explain away. I was running slower because I was training less, I’d tell myself. Of course, I was training less because my pace had slowed and I now covered fewer miles in a given period of time. It was a vicious cycle: slow running resulted in a decrease in mileage; fewer miles yielded even slower running.

  By the time my fifties rolled around, my running was sputtering and stalling. Some days were good, but on other days running was a bone-crushing experience. Every step seemed to be a defiance of gravity. My body had begun to betray me on a regular basis.

  As my fifties passed, the chasm between what my mind wanted and what my body could deliver grew wider. I was trapped in a body that would no longer do my bidding. Age has a way of eroding your optimism, as I realized that the best was no longer yet to come; all I had to look forward to was more of the same and worse.

  Yet after decades on the road, the need to exercise had become a constant with me; it couldn’t be turned off, just redirected. Triathlons seemed to be the answer; it was the new sport in town, a kinder, gentler way of staying fit. I changed my workout habits; I began swimming and biking and cut back on my running. It was a pleasant experience trying to find enough time for all three disciplines. Since I had spent very little time in the pool and didn’t even own a credible bicycle, my baseline performance in both of these new activities was very low. But after a few weeks, I began to enjoy the modest improvements in my performance that come when you first start training. I found that I was spending more time exercising, yet my muscles didn’t feel like they were constantly working overtime.

  Along the way, I discovered some great news: in cycling, a faster time on a bicycle is actually available for purchase. If you are willing to spend a foolish amount of money on an expensive bike and other gear, you can pedal perhaps one or two miles per hour faster, all the while fostering the illusion that you are improving. You’re still many miles behind the leaders, but you feel a little better about yourself. Everything in the sporting world is relative, after all. It’s the same line of reasoning that allows a golfer with a twenty stroke handicap to purchase a top of the line, prohibitively expensive set of golf clubs.

  My short triathlons gradually led to longer ones until, at the age of sixty, I signed up for my first Ironman triathlon in Brazil. At the time, South America seemed like an exotic destination, but my choices were limited; there were only twenty Ironman events world-wide, and most of them filled up quickly.

  Ironman Brazil, a full 140.6 miles non-stop, proved to be a long day for a man in his sixties—more than fourteen hours in total. I was exhausted but euphoric when I crossed the finish line, relieved to no longer have to suffer, proud of my accomplishment, and happy to have survived.

  Brazil was followed the next year by Switzerland, then South Africa. Using an Ironman triathlon as an excuse to go on a holiday was an easy habit to acquire. New Zealand was next, followed by Arizona, and a final Ironman triathlon in China. In just a few years, I had participated in six Ironman triathlons on six continents in my sixties. As you might expect, this had taken a toll on my time and my body—it was time for a break.

  I used the downtime to put the whole story down on paper, writing a book about my adventures (Against the Odds: The Adventures of a Man in His Sixties Competing in Six of the World’s Toughest Triathlons Across Six Continents). I was gratified that so many people were interested in hearing my tales, but I missed the competitions. I kept running, swimming, and biking, heading out in the morning to the pool or track almost on auto-pilot. As the years rolled along, my times became embarrassingly slow; it was hard to imagine that I would ever be able to do another Ironman triathlon.

  As my sixties went speeding past like an express train, the Ironman world began to change. The World Triathlon Corporation (WTC), the parent organization of Ironman, added an Ironman 70.3 triathlon to their agenda. The distances were a 1.2 mile swim, a 56 mile bike, and a 13.1 mile run—exactly half of a full Ironman. This opened the door for the thousands of people who wanted to do an Ironman triathlon but were reluctant to sign away all their free time for months on end preparing for the full race.

  The WTC had expanded its customer base and in doing so had created a farm club, funneling athletes from the 70.3 distance into the full Ironman triathlon. Since the Ironman brand was attracting overachievers with a high disposable income, there was money to be made for the WTC. A little more than a decade ago, there were just twenty or so Ironman events; today, there are close to one hundred and fifty. Entry fees have gone up, and races are now staged on all corners of the globe. (No surprise, then, that big business showed up in the form of private equity firms. The Ironman triathlon has become a cash cow as well as an athletic event.)

  Times change. The Ironman triathlon once had an aura, a type of mystique not found in other events. Tackling an Ironman required a certain dedication and perseverance—as well as a good bit of luck—not needed in other competitions. It was a difficult challenge
accessible to relatively few athletes. The thought went that if running a marathon is good, then finishing an Ironman had to be even better.

  Today, that’s no longer the case. Ironman finishers are no longer unique; every local running group or cycling club has several people who’ve completed an Ironman triathlon. Once a badge of who you are and what you could do, finishing an Ironman is now so commonplace that it rarely awes or inspires. Endurance events have been embraced by the masses, the chance to be exceptional is gone.

  At least, that’s what I told myself as I slogged away on the roads at my snail’s pace, as far from being in shape for an Ironman as a man could possibly get. As depressing as the facts of physical decline are, they are still facts. I was burdened with stiff joints and weak muscles, a mere smidgen of the man I once was.

  It was around this time that the Ironman 70.3 Vietnam race popped up on the screen of my computer. I was instantly interested—this brand-new event would be held in May at my old stomping grounds in Da Nang. The Vietnam War had been on my mind and in the news for the last year or two, after decades of absence. The conflict was the major event in U.S. history during the second half of the twentieth century, and every significant milestone in the war was coming up on its fiftieth anniversary remembrance. For the last couple of years I had attended my 366th Fighter Wing reunion, seeing old faces and stirring up old memories.

  One day, pushed along by nostalgia, I pulled out a large stack of letters that I had written to my wife and mother during the war. And just like that, Vietnam reentered my life. I dug out my old flight records; I even found one of my flight suits. It was easy to imagine myself in the backseat of an F-4, headed out on a mission over the Ho Chi Minh Trail. After ignoring the war for most of the last forty-five years, I was ready to return to Vietnam. The Ironman 70.3 Vietnam triathlon was just the excuse I needed.

  Of course, wanting to do a triathlon and being able to do a triathlon are two very different things. Over the years, I’ve forgotten a lot about Vietnam, but I do remember the weather at Da Nang: temperatures topping 100°F with high humidity were the norm. It’s not a good place for a senior citizen who wilts in the heat.

  I gave it my best shot, huffing and puffing, pushing and pulling, trying to achieve that Ironman nirvana. I found I could make the time on the swim and the bike, but the running was no longer there.

  There was, however, another option. In the Ironman 70.3 triathlon, relay teams are allowed. I could do the fifty-six mile bike and leave the swimming and running to my younger teammates. It was an ignoble choice, but I’m a practical man. In your seventies, time is no longer on your side, everything is fragile, and nothing is guaranteed. I’ve reached the point where life is no longer full of possibilities. My choices were limited; I could either do the bike leg of the relay or I could stay at home.

  I sent in my entry, happy to be heading back to Vietnam, a anxious to see the country once again.

  NINETEEN

  DA NANG FROM

  A BICYCLE

  May 6, 2016

  On my first night in Vietnam in 1971, I was greeted by a Viet Cong rocket attack. By military standards, it wasn’t much to be concerned about; a few rounds exploded in the middle of the night, damaging several buildings and leaving some big ugly holes in the ground. No one was killed or injured, the holes were quickly filled in, the buildings were repaired, and the war rolled on along with barely a pause.

  Decades later, I still consider this unexpected, unwelcomed introduction to war as one of the worst days of my life. It wasn’t so much the fear and the anxiety that came from the ground shaking explosions, the sirens, and the flares as it was the deep sense of depression that came from the realization that I had a full year ahead of me at Da Nang. If this was day one, what could I expect in the months to come? It all seemed unfair there was no grace period, no time to adapt to life in Vietnam. The war started for me the very first day I arrived in country. It was like walking in the front door to begin a new job and being punched in the gut; there was no serious damage done, nothing permanent, but you had to wonder what else lay ahead. How bad could things get?

  Forty-five years later, my first day “in country” was much more tranquil, much less stressful than my first visit. I was returning to Vietnam by choice, on my own terms, anxious to visit a land where more than fifty-eight thousand Americans had died in the fight against communism. The decades have gone by quickly, and I’m at the time in my life when looking in the rearview mirror can be a true pleasure. I am curious about so many things. How will Da Nang look nearly a half-century later? The great majority of today’s Vietnamese were born after the end of what they know as the “American War;” how do they really feel about the conflict? How will they react to a returning veteran?

  The Da Nang Air Base of the Vietnam War is now Da Nang International Airport. The twin ten thousand foot runways look much the same as they did in 1971, but there are few other reminders of the once massive American presence.

  Early in the war, the U.S. built Da Nang Air Base, turning a sleepy airfield into the world’s busiest airport, the lynchpin of American airpower in Southeast Asia. For nearly eight years, F-4 Phantoms flew around the clock, providing close air support for American and South Vietnamese troops battling the Viet Cong and North Vietnamese forces. The aircraft pounded the Ho Chi Minh trail in Laos in an attempt to slow the flow of men and materiel from North Vietnam to the Viet Cong. When ordered, they even took the war up North during the Rolling Thunder and Linebacker campaigns.

  Today, Da Nang is Vietnam’s third busiest airport, behind Hanoi and Ho Chi Minh City. A new terminal was opened in 2010, and an even bigger one is in the works. Nowadays, Asian tourists arrive daily, headed for the beaches and golf courses of Da Nang. The passenger terminal is located on the west side of the runway at the spot where the original base operations existed during the war; the control tower stands a little further to the north and looks unchanged. While the basic layout of Da Nang International Airport is much the same as it was during the war, the atmosphere is completely different. Today, it’s a quiet, ordinary airport with long intervals between takeoffs and landings; there is none of the chaos of wartime.

  I landed from the south at the end of a twenty-eight hour flight from the U.S., exhausted and feeling my age but thrilled to be making the same approach that I had done many times in the past in an F-4. As my plane taxied, I scanned the area, looking for familiar landmarks. Not surprisingly, the barracks, mess hall, base exchange, wing headquarters, and dispensary were all long gone. The only familiar objects were the half-moon shaped revetments that once sheltered the Phantoms from Viet Cong rocket attacks. These immense slabs of steel and concrete, lined in neat rows, are the last remaining symbols of American air power. Virtually indestructible, the revetments stand sad and forlorn at many of the old airbases throughout the country. A few are still used to shelter aircraft, while others have been converted into storage depots.

  I began my stay in Vietnam at one of the many luxury resorts that are strung out like beads on a necklace along the curving China Beach coastline. The Vietnamese have their own names for the beaches that make up what is better known to the rest of the world as China Beach. They probably resent having the name of their traditional enemy attached to one of their better known pieces of real estate, but they recognize the branding value of the China Beach name and seem to have reluctantly accepted the more recognizable moniker.

  Even though the Chinese are avid tourists and heavy investors in the country, today’s Vietnamese have a certain fear and loathing of China. I can’t begin to tell you how many Vietnamese have complained to me about the Chinese. They are “overbearing,” “poor mannered,” and “spend too much time gambling.” No insult is too small, no complaint too petty. One guide told me that he hated dealing with the Chinese because they spend too much time taking selfies.

  My hotel is home base for the Ironman Vietnam 70.3 triathlon, ostensibly the reason for my return to Vietnam. In reality,
the race was just an excuse to come back to Da Nang. If I hadn’t found this event, I would have had to think up another reason to return. I’ve hooked up with a couple of expatriates working in Vietnam to help share the burden of doing the Ironman. Ryszard, a native South African who manages a hotel in Da Nang, will do the swim, while Lars, a German who works for Adidas in Ho Chi Minh City, will handle the run. My task is to push a seventy-one year old body along a fifty-six mile bike course in one hundred plus degree heat.

  My first full day back in Vietnam is devoted to making sure my bicycle will carry me the full fifty-six miles. Even though my body is old, my bicycle is fairly new; I need every bit of help I can get in this race, and besides, I’ve always considered it a crime to be saddled with an obsolete bicycle. For probably the last time in my life, I break down my bike, pack it in a case, and bring it along on the airplane. I’ve done this probably a dozen or more times over the years, and each effort seems a little more annoying and a lot more cumbersome than the previous one. (I tried to rent a bike in Da Nang, but there are only a few shops in town, and they haven’t progressed much past mountain bikes.)

  There are many challenges when you bring along your bicycle. I’ve always felt that traveling with a bike is awkward and unnatural, it’s like taking your lawnmower or vacuum cleaner on a vacation. The case is fairly large, and transporting it to and from airports is always difficult. Vehicles are also smaller in Asia, and the SUVs and minivans seen in the U.S. are less common. Negotiating the baggage fee for a bicycle with the airlines is like entering the lottery. Sometimes you’re oversized, sometimes you’re overweight, sometimes both. Occasionally, the bike is free. I usually present my bike case at the airport check-in and pray for the best. Once you’ve completed the race, you usually need to store your bicycle while you travel about the country before picking it up the day you fly home. Most hotels are accommodating, but it’s another uncertainty to deal with.