When my dad was 57 years old, he qualified for his 2nd IronMan championship race. Here's a breakdown of the race. He's one of the strongest swimmers in the field having been a world masters swimmer and an alternate for the US Olympic swim team back in his prime. Still able to hold his own, he was out of the water after a 2.4 miles swim as one of the first in the age groupers, even beating a handful of professionals. Then he was off on the bike. 112 miles through the grueling lava fields. Not too far into the ride, he crashed...hard. He sprained his knee and pulled his medial cruciate ligament (MCL). Instead of scratching the race, he repaired his bike as best he could and got back on and finished the ride. But the damage was done. When we saw his start the marathon, blood was running down his leg, but he assured us it was a minor scrape--he failed to mention just how bad the fall really was until after he finished the entire race. We were tracking him during the entire race and were expecting him to take about 4 hours to complete the marathon portion of the race, but when he failed to reach the halfway check point in 2 hours, we knew something was wrong. We finally caught up with him and saw him walking with a severe limp. Stubborn is the only word I can use. He let his pride get the best of him and refused to scratch the race even in clear pain beyond that of what you anticipate from a race of this magnitude. We followed him closely as he entered the last stretch down Ali'i drive toward the finish line. My mom waited patiently at the finish line while the rest of us looked on in awe of what he was about to accomplish. Sure he'd finished the IronMan before, but never in this condition. Not even a step past the finish line, he collapsed and was carted off by the medical staff to the restricted medical tents. After an hour of receiving fluids, electrolytes and other essential emergency attention, we were finally able to retrieve him and bring him back to the comfort of the house we rented for the week of the race. Now this is where I get frustrated and a little bit scary--they wouldn't allow us to back our car into the finish line staging area to pick him up--keep in mind my dad couldn't even walk at this point. Most Hawaiians are known for their laid back demeanor and I challenged the patience of even the most composed person. Demanding, ney, threatening my way into the area, we finally are able to load my dad into the car and drive him home. The next obstacle was getting him from the car into the bedroom. Scott came up with the genius idea of fashioning a make-shift stretcher out of a soft travel golf bag cover and rolled my dad through the house. Over the next few days, my dad spent his time in bed recovering and my mom made him promise never to participate in the race again. So far he's stuck by his promise, but I have a sneaking suspicion that he'll race again in the near future.
So that's my IronMan story... who knows, one day I may catch the triathlon bug and do the Boise half IronMan myself. Stay tuned!
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