The fans are alive. Giant red and black flags are everywhere; shouting and singing are the order of the day, large drums pound continuously. It’s loud, raucous, and invigorating.
Suddenly from a small tunnel the players emerge onto the pitch and the crowd goes wild. Red and black balloons appear, fireworks explode, the screaming intensifies. You can see, hear, touch, and smell the excitement. No one is sitting, many are jumping up and down.
By the time half-time arrives I’m nearly drained. The day is warm so I grab a can of guarana; a soft drink made from guarana berries and high in caffeine. It’s a popular drink in Brazil, reported to cure anything and everything, and has a great berry taste. It reminds me a little bit of cranberries. Not only that, it’s made by our friends at Antarctica.
The second half ends with Flamengo winning easily. I’m exhausted but Eduardo and the other fans seem no worse for the wear. The Brazilians seem to be able to concentrate their fun and excitement. Ordinary life is laid back and relaxed, but soccer is an intense, serious business.
As for me, I’m tired and hungry, and I could stand a big plate of feijoada with a side of chicken hearts.
NOTHING BEATS the feeling you get from finishing an IRONMAN® Triathlon. It has been one of the longest days of your life but also one of the very best days of your life. You’ve had a year’s worth of pain and suffering crammed into a single brutal day that seemed like it would never end. Fortunately the long hours of training paid off and everything worked according to plan. The feeling of relief is profound, no more worries, no more living under the gun; you are delighted to be done.
I know that’s how I feel. I’ve seen the bright lights, I’ve reached the mountain top, I’ve been to the Promised Land. The usual words seem insufficient and inadequate to describe the experience. I’m riding high, grasping at every metaphor in sight, tossing clichés left and right.
When I talk to normal people about the race, I do my best not to sound like a complete idiot. It was a long row to hoe, I tell them, definitely not a walk in the park. It was no piece of cake, I had to stay focused and I had to avoid spinning my wheels (except during the bike, of course). By the time I got to the finish line, I realized I was out of the woods and was ready to call it a day.
The clichés seem to go on forever but unfortunately that’s not the case for the post-race euphoria. The excitement surrounding an IRONMAN® race has a half-life of about two weeks. In the days immediately after the race, you get the chance to relive the event with your fellow competitors. Everyone did the same race, of course, but perceptions often differ. Some people were bothered by the hill that you barely noticed while the headwind on the bike that nearly stood you up was just a mild breeze to other athletes. Some thought the swim course was a little long, others aren’t sure. No race detail is too small to ignore. This is a big event and it needs to be thoroughly dissected and analyzed.
Race expectations can vary greatly from athlete to athlete but anyone who completes an IRONMAN Triathlon is usually genuinely happy. It’s a great achievement no matter what the finish time. Even the Big Guys who came up a little short are glad to get another notch on their belt. Their sub 10 hours may have turned into 11 hours but it’s still a finish and there’s a lot to be said for surviving a bad day. In IRONMAN racing, unexpected events are the norm and it’s very tempting to drop out when things go wrong, so any finish is noteworthy.
For me, there is some solace in knowing that I tackled the same challenges as the Big Guys, there’s a tremendous sense of community and shared experience. Some of it is glory by association, but there’s also a bond based on respect. The waves were just as big, the hills just as steep, the miles just as endless. True, I may have spent seven hours on the bike while others barely needed four hours, but in my mind that makes my effort even more special.
The return flight home after an IRONMAN® race is usually a pleasant affair. There are lingering aches and pains but absolutely no anxiety. The spirit-sapping trials and tribulations of modern air travel are much less annoying on the return trip. I have plenty of time to chat with other athletes heading back to the U.S. My tall tales become a little more polished with practice, I add an extra dash of courage and never hesitate to exaggerate. That horrible episode where the airline lost my bike and nearly sent me to a mental institution is just a distant memory. I know that I won’t need my bike anytime soon, the airlines can do anything they wish with my machine. I’m coming home. It’s the return of the triathlon king.
Back at my house I’m not exactly a king. I’m more of a stranger. I become reacquainted with my family, the people I used to spend a lot of time with before I got into this deranged project. I start to bone up on the basics of my former life. Who is that couple that lives next door? When did you say our son graduates? What’s our dog’s name? These are small steps on the road to healthy, sane living.
Over a period of time, things begin to return to normal. I no longer view free time as a kind of provocation. There are long conversations, leisurely meals, hours spent doing nothing and everything. From my family’s point of view, it’s like I’ve just been released from prison and have returned home after a long period in the slammer. There’s no post-triathlon halfway house, though, I’ve been dumped back into the regular world, cold turkey. My wife has to get used to me being around the house on the weekend. Sometimes I’m still in bed when the sun rises, I can even stay awake to watch Saturday Night Live. I know I’m a different man; I’m someone who only wants society to give him a second chance in life. My family is careful, they are living on pins and needles. I’m like a recovering alcoholic; I could fall off the wagon at any time.
Still, everyone is kind and considerate. They know that finishing an IRONMAN® Triathlon is important to me, so they act like it’s important to them. For my family, there’s an underlying question that lies unspoken, unresolved. “Why at your age did you do such a foolish thing?”
It’s much too sensitive a subject to be broached head on, so they ask less threatening, more concrete questions. “How far did you say that swim was?” “Did you see any sharks?” “Do they have Gatorade in Brazil?” “Does your butt get sore from sitting on that bike for seven hours?”
Back at work, I’m a welcome sight. For months I’ve been slipping away early from the office, trying to squeeze in that extra swim or run. Some mornings I would show up late, still drenched with sweat, trying to adhere to my Spartan training schedule. I compiled a horrible work record. If there was any serious task to be done, I was usually nowhere to be found. I was the weak link in the work cycle for so long that my partners quit speaking to me. They’re now ready for me to start doing my share.
Many of the people I see in my practice are my age or older. I’ve known them for years and they are friends as well as patients. By and large, they are bemused and befuddled by my IRONMAN journey. There’s no real purpose or logic to the adventure. Most have worked all their lives and feel like they’ve earned the right to take it easy. One 80-year-old lady summed it up nicely when she volunteered, “There’s no fool like an old fool.”
My triathlon friends are a little more generous, they have a better sense of appreciation of what I have accomplished. I am very happy to get the opportunity to describe every part of my IRONMAN Triathlon in great detail. I’ve got a captive, informed audience and I’m not about to let them get away. There is absolutely no modesty on my part. When I tell the story, the wind is a little stronger, the hills a little steeper, the temperature much warmer. No one expects an ordinary, mundane experience. Heroism is the order of the day.
In fact, my story begins to sound like a tale straight out of Homer’s Odyssey. There’s a clash of titans, a battle with the fates, superhuman struggles. Not only that, I get to play the role of both Homer and Odysseus. I not only tell the story, I’m the hero of the tale.
After a while, it all wears a little thin. My triathlon family is not quite as enthralled as I hoped. They no longer believe me, they mistake my h
yperbole for a pack of lies. No one sees me as Odysseus, instead I’m more of a geriatric Don Quixote.
All the questions, all the interest, all the excitement comes in the first couple of weeks after the race and then it all pretty well stops. The rest of the world goes about its business. My IRONMAN® experience was just a mere blip on everyone else’s screen. It was a long hard day, but just that, only one day. Much of what I’m doing now seems small and insignificant compared to an IRONMAN Triathlon. I had a big goal that dominated my life for several months, and I finally reached it. What comes next?
Now that I don’t have to train like a madman, I have an extra 15 to 20 hours a week. I try to use this extra time in a productive way, but sometimes I meander and wander. I have more time available but I seem to do less, boredom and purposelessness are all too common.
All this is fine and dandy. I’m making the post-race letdown sound like a major psychiatric disorder, a step on the road to a full mental breakdown. In reality it’s just a normal slump that many people experience after achieving a major goal. It’s like graduating from college, getting married, or changing jobs. This event is just another mile post on the road of life.
This all sounds pretty obvious but nothing is simple in the world of IRONMAN racing. Believe it or not, there’s an impressive name for this less than impressive problem. It’s called the Post-Triathlon Depressive Syndrome (PTDS), a splendid name worthy of twenty-first-century society. Once you’ve identified and named a disorder, it’s time to treat it. The answer is the PTDS recovery plan. Those very same folks who brought you these detailed mind-numbing training plans for the full distance triathlon—the very same people who rode herd over your mileage, the same crowd who closely monitored your heart rate, caloric intake, and sleep patterns—they all want to be of further assistance. You made it through the race, now it’s time to enroll in the PTDS recovery plan. The plan has carefully calculated doses of stretching, light exercise, mental push-ups, and such. Follow this regimen and in no time at all you’ll be well and fit, ready to re-enter the normal world.
I’m sure this is good advice, but I’ve got a much better idea for treating the PTDS that’s guaranteed to work. My plan does cost a little more, and it does require a good bit of time, but hey, that’s what life is for.
My answer for the PTDS is simple: I’ve entered the 2005 IRONMAN Switzerland. I don’t have time to get depressed, I’ve got to get to work training. I can hear Switzerland calling like a siren and I’m all ears. (The sirens in Switzerland actually prefer to yodel.)
I’m totally committed to the Switzerland race but my wife and family are less than thrilled. It’s like I’ve volunteered to return to Vietnam or I’ve joined the Peace Corp or decided to go on the road with the Lawrence Welk Orchestra. “Another IRONMAN race?” they ask. “What are you trying to prove? We’re sick of this stupid exercise stuff. Why don’t you do something normal?”
“I was hoping all of you would come with me,” I reply. “It’ll be a great trip. We’ll do lots of sightseeing and plenty of shopping. Besides, I know you all love Swiss chocolate.”
Now they change their tune. “That’s a great idea,” they reply. “Staying healthy is important. All this working out helps keep you in great shape. We can’t wait, when do we leave?”
My sons fall victim to work and family conflicts, but my wife Polly and my daughter Patricia are willing accomplices on the trip to Switzerland. These ladies can provide enough raw shopping power to keep the Swiss economy afloat for years.
I know I’ll miss my boys, but at least I’ve got an outside chance of returning from this trip financially solvent. Five travelers in Switzerland would have meant near certain bankruptcy, a true budgetary black hole.
We arrive in Zurich early one July morning, exhausted from the overnight flight. Getting from small town Mississippi to big town Switzerland isn’t simple. The three of us have fought delays, re-bookings, crushed legs, and bad airline food. Plus we’ve had to keep an eye on the packed bike case. It’s always lingering in the background, creating confusion, annoying airline agents, taking up space, causing numerous problems and delays. It’s like going on vacation with your lawnmower.
At our hotel we’re greeted by a tall, lanky guy with long red hair pinned back in a ponytail. He looks like a leftover from the Woodstock generation, a man fast-forwarded from the 1960s. He’s Ken Glah, one of the legends of the IRONMAN® world. His company, Endurance Sports Travel (EST), is responsible for all our travel details in Switzerland.
Ken lopes around answering questions, checking details, giving instructions to his staff, moving adroitly from one problem to another. His clients are the athletes and their families, here for the IRONMAN race. He seems like the ringmaster directing all the action, keeping the show going. Ken probably feels that zookeeper would be a more accurate description of his job, it’s frantic and unpredictable.
Ken is in his late forties and he has carved a nice niche in the triathlon business. EST is prepared to take care of all your needs; they do everything but run the race for you. Air travel and accommodations are things any travel agent can handle, but Ken puts it all together in a complete package, tailored for the bizarre demands of the IRONMAN world. He’s kind of a philosopher-king who manages to see the whole picture.
People participating in an IRONMAN® Triathlon are a little different, a little peculiar. Ken understands this, he has a bemused tolerance for misfits, he knows what you’re worried about. You don’t have to explain or apologize for wanting to eat breakfast at 4:00 a.m. on race morning. Ken makes sure the hotel restaurant is serving at that hour. If you make it back to the hotel after midnight, too exhausted to move, EST will usually have something for you to eat. Ken treats everyone with equal courtesy: IRONMAN veterans who have seen it all many times as well as newcomers like me who are still afraid of their own shadow.
Most everyone doing the race stays at the same hotel and eats together. This is great group therapy. Commiserating with your fellow athletes, you find out that you’re not imagining things; you have a real solid basis for your anxiety and insecurity.
The morning of an IRONMAN Triathlon is always a time of great apprehension. I spend my time before the race in my usual way, questioning my judgment and common sense. What if I bomb out? What if I crash? What if I die? What am I doing here in Switzerland? Why didn’t I just take my family to the beach?
On race morning, I’m up around 4:00 a.m. after a few hours of restless sleep. There are two alarms set to ring as well as a hotel wake-up call but I’m out of bed before any go off. Are these alarms really necessary? Has anyone ever overslept on race morning and missed the start? I’m sure it has happened somewhere to somebody, but I know it’ll never happen to me.
After a quick breakfast with the mandatory two cups of coffee, it’s time for the bus ride to the transition area. What a solemn procession of long-faced athletes. Everyone is overloaded with bags of gear and plenty of doubt and anxiety. No one laughs, no one even smiles. The dawn patrol is silent. It’s like we’re all catching a shuttle to our own funeral.
It’s a dark, quiet Sunday morning in Zurich, and no one else is stirring. No one anywhere else in the world in their right mind stirs before dawn on Sunday morning. If there ever was a time I should be in bed, this is it.
Instead I’m in the transition area checking and rechecking. I went over my bike with a fine-tooth comb yesterday before I left it in transition, but it’s time to look at it once again. How many times can I pump my tires, try the brakes, check the gear shifters? Does a machine have feelings and emotions? Should I lean over and hug and kiss my bike so it’ll know I’m really counting on it? That would be a little strange, even for an IRONMAN® athlete, so I look for other things to do.
During all the pre-race preparations, the dawn gradually breaks, almost unnoticed. It’s a warm summer morning, still and quiet, not unlike daybreak in the Deep South. In reality it’s not exactly warm, it’s more of what I’d call hot. This weather
isn’t what I thought I’d find in Switzerland. I expected chilly mornings, mild days, men in short pants bringing the cows in for milking. I wonder why I’m not out fishing, or maybe reading the morning paper on the patio, or even better, slumbering in bed. Isn’t there an age limit on poor judgment? Aren’t you supposed to get wiser when you get older?
As the starting time approaches, I’m standing patiently on a rocky beach, maybe 10 yards deep, with 1,200 or so other athletes, overcooking in my wetsuit. This rubber outfit has me simmering in the heat. There’s no need to warm up, I need to get in the water and cool down.
Just a few minutes before the gun, the noise level rises. Everyone is moving and talking, checking their swim cap and goggles. There’s background music plus a lot of announcements coming over the public address system. The music is in English, the announcements in German.
Then it happens, the magical sound, the call to duty.
Helicopters are heard overhead, one of the most exciting noises in the world, synonymous with energy and motion. Whop-whop-whop, what someone once called the sound of air being beaten into submission.
For many people, old songs often trigger memories, recollections of past events, trips back in time. It’s much the same for me with helicopters. The noise reminds me of the year I spent as a flight surgeon in Vietnam. The rhythmic beating was a constant background sound at Da Nang, present during the day and night, remorselessly ubiquitous, competing with the roar of F-4 Phantoms taking off. When you’re young, noise is energizing. As you grow older, you value silence. In some Vietnam veterans the sound of a helicopter can trigger bad memories, even Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder in a few cases, but for me the memories are mostly positive.
The helicopters circle, the gun goes off, and I plunge into Lake Zurich. This is probably the best place I’ve ever swam in a triathlon. The water is cool and clear, there are no waves, the buoys are big and easy to see.
Against the Odds Page 9