An Ironman—2.4 miles of open water swimming, 112 miles on the bike, a 26.2-mile marathon. A daunting proposition. To toe the start line is intimidating; to contemplate completion—for me—flirts with the absurd.
Although Shanon and I have weathered a year that has us feeling sapped, fragile, and ill-prepared, we have the tiny consolation that this is not the first Ironman for either of us. Ten years ago, in Houston, Shanon completed an Ironman. She’s started one and finished one. Her record is perfect. But now, to finish another, she must contend with a body weakened by four surgeries and a fight with cancer. She must rebuild strength, flexibility, and the conviction that such an endeavor is possible. But she is a fighter with the mental fortitude to endure the stiffest of challenges.
As for me, I’ve finished three of five Ironman races, none of which went smoothly. I celebrated one finish in the medical tent as a dehydrated pin cushion for Intravenous fluids. I completed another by keeling over at the finish line, requiring medical intervention for severe hyponatremia. On a third, I took a nap at mile 16 of the run—huddled off the side of the trail in the evening shadows and wrapped in a garbage bag for warmth—before stumbling across the finish. I’ll spare you the unsavory details of the gastrointestinal distress I suffered at the two unsuccessful races. So, I’m three for five. Sixty percent. A solid “D” student. Oh, and I participated in these hellishly long races more than ten years ago. Now, I find myself enduring chronologically induced deterioration and obsolescence. Fun.
But this isn’t about the finish line. It’s about our journey. And before you yak up your lunch and exclaim, “Oh God, not another it’s about the journey platitude,” know that I get it. We’ve all heard it before, again and again. It’s about the journey has been bandied about so much it’s become derivative, hackneyed, a cliché. But whether I say it’s about the journey or conjure up some other insipid bromide, it doesn’t change the fact that it is true. Intellectually, we can empathize with someone who’s experienced a life-altering experience so intense that merely enjoying the journey is a victory. We do this until we experience our own crisis, when the foundations of our reality—of all we believe and all we cherish—tremble and groan, buffeted by the winds of impermanence. Then it becomes personal. As this year reinforced, there are no guarantees. Everything can change in an instant. Even if I appreciated this sobering thought intellectually, a storm of unfortunate events has made it visceral. Now I understand it in my guts and in my bones. So, yeah, it is about the journey, the path ahead. For Shanon and me, it’s about enjoying every step, every pedal stroke, every moment together. The journey is everything.
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