At 4:15AM the alarm pierces the quiet dark hotel room. It only beeps twice before I quickly turn it off. I was already awake anticipating the exciting day ahead. Since my initial glance of triathlon in the 80’s, I dreamt of completing a full distance Ironman. As time passed the dream seemed to get further away, until nine months ago when I registered for Vineman. Now after twenty plus years I’m going to make that dream a reality. I jump out of bed careful not to wake Kim or the kids. I ceremoniously put on my TCSD (Triathlon Club of San Diego) top and shorts. I feel like I’m dressing in a team uniform for the big game. Confidently looking into the mirror, I congratulate myself for being healthy and ready. Then I wish myself luck, gather the equipment, and pack the van.

While the kids remain sleeping, Kim joins me in the van and quickly reclines her seat in denial of being awake at such an early hour. At 5:00 AM we wind our way down the sleepy valley to the race start. On route, I replenish calories burned since last night’s dinner. We arrive early and receive an easy parking space. While I efficiently set-up T1 (the transition area from swim to bike) the night’s mysterious darkness yields to a comforting soft gray flannel. My bike is racked and T1 is ready. Once again I survey the “swim in” and “bike out” paths. As the gray sky continues to brighten, Kim and I leisurely chat and watch athletes stream into the transition area. Off to the side in a quieter spot, I pull on my wetsuit and don my swim cap over my goggles. Kim snaps a few pictures for the scrapbook. Lovingly and proudly she gives me a hug. Again I thank her for being here and helping me realize one of my dreams. When the race’s first wave of professionals and men under 30 begin their day’s journey, Kim wishes me luck and I enter the swim staging area.

I close my eyes, take a few slow deep breaths, and center myself. Garry, one of my TCSD ocean swim buddies, greets me. We share our excitement for the race and wish each other luck. My swim wave, men 40 to 49 years of age, are welcomed into the Russian River a few minutes before we begin. Most of us are able to stand in the reassuringly shallow water. The intimately narrow river is silky smooth and light. The color is tinted hazel green like the eyes of a loving women. I position myself near the outer bank lined with protecting evergreens and rustling broad-leaves. A light breeze carries a clean forest scent. Like a priest I tilt my head back, extend my arms out, and ask for strength to finish the race. I take another centering deep breath and return with a large smile. The count down is almost complete. Along with my fellow age groupers, I clap and hoot until the buzzer sounds.

We all surge into a quick paced swim. I dodge the feet kicking near my face. I get jostled from my right and left. I am squeezed like a sardine. Amazingly in the mass chaos I am relatively calm. After five minutes the jostling is reduced and I settle into a more efficient rhythm by breathing every fourth stroke. I concentrate on keeping my elbow up, pulling back straight, and staying within my pace. A couple of us continue to bounce off another. I’m tending to swim right and he’s tending to swim left, in the middle we keep meeting and slapping another on the arm or back. The contact is incidental with no maliciousness whatsoever. As anticipated, the faster swimmers of the next wave caught up and are passing or crawling over me to get by. Drinking a little lake water shouldn’t be too bad for me.

Although I see the swim finish area, I have one more lap to go. Crowding the river’s beach a few hundred people cheer us on. I say “Thank you for the energy boost!” Now I breath every 8th stroke in a hypnotic rhythm like I am vodka buzzed in a night club moving to a repetitive techno music beat. When I get bumped by other swimmers, it is as if I am on that packed club’s floor dancing with my partner, myself, and everyone else. We are at one big party and we are all having a good time. But this dance seems like it is lasting forever.

As I go around the last turn buoy and down the home stretch, I tell myself “you’re doing great. Keep going. Nice smooth strokes. Elbow up.” I remember before I exit the swim, I need to move the blood from my swimming arms into my biking legs. So I kick with renewed purpose. With only about 200 yards remaining, my left hamstring tightens up. To shut out the cascading negative thoughts of a leg problem happening before I bike 112 miles and run a marathon, I talk to myself. “Ease the kicking. Swim right up to the sand. Get your balance when you stand. Don’t rush it. Make smooth, controlled movements.”

My body automatically runs into the transition area while my mind remains in the water’s tranquil cocoon. Slowly I emerge into consciousness and gradually notice the chaos of frantic athletes and screaming fans. I remain in a dizzy fog as I cautiously and methodically clip into my bike pedals. I allow myself to celebrate completing the swim within my expected time. Then I remind myself to “Stay calm. Do my race. You have 112 miles to go.”

After few minutes into the bike ride I no longer feel dizzy. Instead I feel cold as the valley’s morning air rushes against my wet exposed skin. I am taking it easy as I pass those in later swim waves who are fast swimmers but slower bikers. I look at the rider’s calf for their written age. I don’t seen many in my age group. I don’t know what this means and the thought disappears. I continue to pass cyclists and others pass me. A few of us play a give and go where I pass on the down slope and they pass on the hill. I laugh like a kid riding with my childhood friends to the baseball fields. I want to turn-up the friendly competition by pouncing on the peddles and flying by. But I need to conserve my energy for this long day.

The lazy hilly roads are shrouded by a canopied forest. My eyes are drawn to the natural beauty. However, the twisted and torn road surface demands my eyes attention. I take a few pulls on my nutrition concentrate bottle. I have to remember to drink to stay hydrated and to absorb calories. After fifteen minutes I settle into a comfortable rhythm. I naturally anticipate the land’s undulations and changes like an experienced waltz partner. My cadence and applied force (power) is consistent and smooth like a well tuned engine. I feel I am holding back yet I still pass people. A conversation resumes in my head. “I really have no idea where I am, but that’s o.k. I know a turn will be marked or ‘manned’. Enjoy this beautiful scenery. You always wanted to bike in the wine country. Now you are doing it.”

I emerge from the canopied trees like heavy rain suddenly parting to reveal a brilliant rainbow. The broader wine country scene presents gentile rolling hills blanketed with grass waving in the breeze like an angle’s golden hair. Lively oaks majestically extend toward heaven and sprout rich green leaves textured like the worn leather reading chairs at St. Mary’s library. I imagine Heaven looking like this countryside. The pure beauty is dotted with an occasional farm house or barn that blends into the earth. A small wooden sign tells me I’m in Alexander Valley, an area well known for its superior quality wines.

I feel the energy and explosion of life growing everywhere around me. The grape vine’s ballooning fruit extends from the fertile soil teaming with nutrients. The gnarled trees provide home and food to a wide variety of plants and animals. The insects pollenate and dissemble the foliage. Everything is in a cooperative and competitive balance that yields life as I’m now experiencing it. This is a humbling and awe inspiring feeling similar to entering a classic European church where you become quite and small compared to the power and glory around you. But rather than being in a man-made church, I’m in a natural one. I feel I’m in a special sacred place and fortunate to be here. I contently ride in silence as if I’m another natural participant in this wonderful ecosystem.

As the flat open road climbs into steeper hills, I slowly emerge from my spiritual connection. The hills require greater effort. But I’m able to maintain smooth consistent peddling. I heard Chalk Hill is challenging and draining. But when I ascend, it is no more challenging than the hills on my training rides. As I fly down the other side, I progress into the light industrial side of town. I finish my concentrate water bottle earlier than anticipated or the ride is taking longer than planned. The ride into town seems longer than I imagined and there are no longer any cyclists around me. I know I’m on the course because I’m being directed at the various turns. Passing the sterile office buildings and lonely roads a slight feeling of despair and dread of another 3 hours on the bike starts to creep in.

Near the half way point cheering spectators provide me with encouragement and halt my sinking feeling. I keep an eye open for Kim and the girls. I’m not sure if they will be here or not. I round a sharp corner concentrating to stay on the road. I see Katie jumping holding a sign and then Kim and Ashlee jumping and cheering me on. Wow, their enthusiasm immediately sends a shocking burst of energy and love through out my entire body like a pulsating electric current filled with joy and happiness. Their love overflows my depleted tanks, lifts my spirits, and sends me soaring along the route. I tremble and a few tears of joy caress my face. This one moment makes all the hours of training and sacrifice worth every minute. This moment is a once in a lifetime experience that will stay with me forever. It feels like the chest swelling heart pounding I felt when Kim walked down the isle on our wedding day.

In a blissful state, I pick-up my second nutrition concentrate bottle. Although I am on the second lap, the scenery seems different. Maybe it is from the higher and hotter sun, stronger winds, or fatigue. Since the road surface has many hazards including cracked uneven pavement, I keep my eyes focused about twenty feet ahead. After hours of this short range focus and road movement, I get dizzy when I try to look at my watch or bike computer. The watch jumps around out of focus. Even with one eye shut, I can’t read the time or distance. Fortunately, the dizziness is not impacting my balance or ability to corner. I try and keep my eyes on the horizon, but then I’m jolted by the roughness of the country roads. Initially I get frustrated and concerned. But rather than feeding negative emotions, I fondly and repeatedly sing John Denver’s “Country Roads. Take me home. To that place, I once belonged. West Virginia. Mountain Momma. Take me home, country roads.” As I pass the time, singing to myself befriending the roads, the winds get more severe.

A large American flag is spread full by a constant wind pushing directly into my progress. When cycling, it is easy to hate a headwind. Its noise frustrates your patients and sucks your power output while slowing your progress. But hate and negativity sap energy even more. So I switch my thoughts to the wind being my friend. I say the wind is God’s caress. It is God showing me love. And at some point in this race, the headwind will be a tailwind propelling me towards the finish. As I repeat these thoughts the wind seems to vanish and then later returns even stronger. So I say the thoughts out loud and I slice though the wind.

My leg power is much less than the first loop. I tell myself, “you’re golden. You’re powerful. You’re doing great.” I continue to turnover my legs in a trance like state. Though more frequently, I need to stretch and adjust from the hours in a single position: move my arms from the areo bars, raise myself off the seat, arch backwards, and loosen my neck. Since I don’t know exactly where I am on the course and I still can’t see my watch or bike computer, I just plug away knowing I will soon be off the bike. I no longer see the beautiful scenery. My vision has narrowed to a small tunnel of road ahead of me.

My second nutrition bottle is empty and I close on the town. I can taste the bike finish. Going down the final bike path I am jolted from a meditative trance in lonely obscurity into a wild circus of volunteers shouting and directing me to turn and to slow down. Cowbells clang. Fans cheer. Fellow triathletes pat their feet running their first or second lap. The mass excitement makes me feel as if the running race has already begun and I need to join the group quickly. After I rack my bike in transition, I pour cold refreshing water over my head and on my face. Two events down, one to go.

I run out of the transition area down the cheering lane into my first of three laps. I don’t think of running a marathon, I think of running three laps. Three is easier to attain than “marathon.” Spectators yell “go San Diego”. I feel surprisingly good and excited. I really have no expectation for the run except that I anticipate I will finish between 4.5 and 6 hours. However I possibly could go longer if I have issues with my stomach, muscles, or something else. Most problems manifest themselves on the run. But I shut that out of my mind. I am finally on the run and enjoying it. I definitely know I am going to finish. It is just a matter of time.

As I come to the first hill I see 71 year old Garry from the Tri Club. We both walk the hill and chat. After eight hours of only talking to myself, it is great to talk with someone else, especially a friend. When we crest the hill, we pick up our run pace. My 27 year age advantage propels me further and we wish each other luck. As I pass each run aid station I am tempted to dine at the smorgasbord especially as volunteers cheerfully present the foods. But, I stick to my nutrition plan of an Accelerade Gel every 45 minutes followed by water throughout. Although the temperature is hot, it is not too bad. There is a pleasantly cool breeze breaking through the shade trees keeping my core temperature in check. As I walk a hill, cows causally saunter to the road fence as they slowly chew their cud and watch us, it seems, with amusement. Fellow Tri club members give cheers as we pass another on this out and back loop. It is exciting and encouraging to be running among friends.

At one of the aid stations I try a Coke and an Oreo cookie. Both taste fantastic and are satisfying. A little while later as I enter my third and final lap, I feel a boost both physically and mentally. As the finish line gets closer, I begin to play games like I only have a 10k, now only from the end of the trail to home. I pick-up the pace. The air is cooling as the sun nears the horizon. Most spectators are in various states of departure. There are fewer runners on the course. Some runners now have glow sticks around their necks meaning they are here for a long night. I dig deeper and go faster. I focus on the finish line and accept the crowd’s cheers. Then I hear my family’s cheers as I strongly cross the finish line. I raise my arms in personal victory as I complete my first full distance Ironman race. Photos are snapped. A medal is draped around my neck. A space blanket, t-shirt and water bottle placed in my hands. And finally after 13.5 hours, I arrive into the arms of my family.

Feeling elation, accomplishment, and love, we walk over to the dining area. I eat a bowl of chicken soup and hear about my family’s day. Again I let them know how meaningful it is having them here with me; how their cheers gave me energy and drive to keep going. In return, I hope I showed my children you can do anything you set your mind to. Today, a dream I thought its time had passed is now completed and checked off my list. My self imposed box of limitations has now expanded. Some of the box’s sides were obliterated, punched with holes and severely weakened. Some may have even become stronger. Nonetheless, I have grown. I have a renewed belief in myself and a reinvigorated courage to press onward.