Against the Odds

by John L. Pendergrass

  Across the hall it’s a gentler story. I glance in on a quiet, dimly lit room full of thin, attractive women. They’re dressed in colorful outfits, stretched out on thin rubber mats, obviously at peace with the world. There’s not a man to be found. These ladies are stunningly flexible, some seem to be scratching their ear with their big toe. Their movements are smooth and natural, seemingly effortless. This is yoga land, the world of tofu, organic foods, Jane Austen novels, and the Toyota Prius®, a place where the mind triumphs over the body. These women have their lives under control. It’s no place for me; I can barely scratch my navel. I decide to stick with swimming, biking, and running and hope I can muddle through.

  All of this training turns me into a morning person, early to bed and early to rise. I’ve always been more of a rooster than owl, but the pattern becomes more pronounced. I have no trouble falling asleep each evening, in fact, I have trouble staying awake. Each night before I turn in I have great plans for the following day. I promise myself that I’ll do a long run or a hard bike, or a solid brick workout. Somewhere between dusk and dawn my determination disappears. Still I plug along usually doing less than I planned the night before, occasionally doing more.

  The spring mornings are fresh and crisp and working out takes on a rhythm of its own. Some days are hard, some routine, and a few are easy. I go to work fresh, fortified with Starbucks coffee, eager to see patients, looking forward to Brazil.

  I still have a job and family (at least for the time being) and there are only so many hours in a day, so I continuously try to simplify my training. I’m looking for that magical balance between too much training and too little. Life seems to get more complicated with time and it doesn’t get any slower.

  I decide to skip personal coaching even though I know that I would be a much smarter and a much better triathlete if I went this route. I don’t have the time or the motivation and I’m too old to have a coach. The last time I had a coach was in my high school days. Back then, if I didn’t try hard I had to stay after practice and run wind sprints. If the coach got really mad at me he’d take out his paddle and give me a half-dozen licks on my bottom. Times change. No one doles out corporal punishment anymore, especially to a man in his sixties, but I’m still not ready for a coach.

  Over the years, several of my friends have hired personal coaches. They are constantly writing down workouts and goals, spending time on the computer, and chatting on the cell phone with their coach. If they miss a workout their life seems to become unraveled. They worry about every morsel of food they put in their mouth. Two workouts a day are the norm, there’s little time for pleasure.

  Sometimes this sport seems like a crack house for people addicted to exercise. It’s certainly the dominant focus of their life; their coach becomes their psychiatrist and priest, their spiritual guide, a surrogate messiah. Coaches amplify, I want to simplify.

  A personal coach provides you with a detailed road map to IRONMAN® success, you’ve got someone to answer every question and solve every problem. I’m like most men; I don’t have a map and I hate to ask for directions. I hope I’m headed the right way.

  Everyone tells me an IRONMAN race is a mental as well as a physical challenge. I’ll have to admit that most of the time I’m not sure if I’m coming or going, my life is far from serene. Still, I am not doing anything special to get myself mentally ready for this triathlon. I try to focus on the positive and I try to avoid negative thoughts in general. I’m pretty good at identifying what I can control and what I can’t and I try not to worry about something I can’t do anything about.

  If something good happens to me, I try to internalize it and build on it. I try not to take guilt trips. Once something is done, that’s it. This all sounds like elementary psychology, the kind of stuff that Dr. Phil dishes out on a daily basis, but I’ve got one unusual quirk: As much as possible, I avoid setting goals. I have a goal of finishing this race and that’s enough. I want nothing more and will settle for nothing less. No pie-in-the-sky projections for me.

  All my life, for more than a half century, people have been urging me to set goals. When I was in elementary school my teachers would try to get me to write down my goals. Before school let out for summer my mother would ask me what my goals were for the vacation break.

  “It’s a good time to accomplish things you don’t have time for during the school year,” she would say. That was very true, but somehow these things to accomplish never included sleeping late, watching television, or going fishing.

  I’m avoiding a laundry list of goals before setting upon my first IRONMAN competition. There are no special mental tricks for me. I can’t meditate my way through this. I can’t talk myself into finishing. It’s all physical; I need to get to work. It’s time to swim, bike, and run.

  I know that there’s a lot that goes into preparing for an IRONMAN® Triathlon and I realize that I’m not exactly an expert on full distance training. Nonetheless I’ve decided to summarize my program for anyone who is interested in learning what it takes to complete one of these insane triathlons. My program is very simple. If your training falls somewhere between the lower limit and the upper limit for each discipline, you can join the IRONMAN elite.

  THE RACE day is just around the corner, and I can feel the anticipation and the anxiety growing. In no time at all the big day will be here and I’ll have my chance to become an IRONMAN® finisher.

  With three weeks to go, I’ve entered a triathlon in Panama City, Florida. It’s exactly one-half of what I’ll do in Brazil so it should be a good solid workout, a soft launch into the world of IRONMAN racing, my last hard day before the big event. After this race I’ll cut back dramatically on my training. No more six hour bike rides, no more 5:30 a.m. swim sessions, no more muscle-killing long runs. I’ll take more days off in the next few weeks than I’ve done in many months.

  My friend Steve and I head down to the Florida Gulf Coast a couple of days before the race. We’re booked at the host hotel so we’ve got a three night minimum stay. This hotel has been the headquarters of the race for many years and they’re especially adept at extracting maximum dollars from poor, nervous triathletes like Steve and me. We’re so scared that we do everything we’re told without complaint. Steve and I have fear baked into our nature.

  When we check in, we find out that the hotel has added a few extra bucks to the nightly rate. In return for the extra charge, we have unlimited use of the telephone for local and long-distance calls. That’s right, anywhere in the good old USA, anytime we want, for as long as we want.

  One of the things I like about Steve is that he is a primitive, low-tech guy like me, neither one of us has ever been accused of being an urbane sophisticate. In fact, we were both born in the wrong century. I can remember back when you picked up a phone and the operator asked, “Number, please.” I do have a cell phone, but I rarely use it. I never text and I damn sure don’t take pictures with my phone. In my mind, that’s what cameras are for. Steve says he has a cell phone, but I’ve known him for over 30 years and I’ve never seen any credible evidence of its existence. He has always had a wary disdain for technology. Steve once told me that he thought email was just a passing fad.

  There’s a lot of time to burn before race morning; registration and a trip around the race expo don’t take very long. A short swim in the Gulf of Mexico to check out our wetsuits and we’re done. We decide to stay inside out of the sun, keeping cool, resting for the big day.

  Inside our room, Steve immediately hits the phone like a man possessed. It’s like he has won the lottery or discovered a cure for cancer. He’s calling anyone and everyone with his magical free telephone.

  The conversations all go basically the same. First, Steve inquires about some relatives or friends and then both parties exchange some news. This goes on for a few minutes and then Steve proudly explains that he has free unlimited long distance calls as part of the extraordinary deal the hotel has given us. He then tells his listener that he is in
Panama City to do a triathlon.

  Next comes the explanation of what makes up a triathlon—swim, bike, and run—and then Steve describes how long the distances are. For most people the numbers are meaningless. A few seem to recall those days long ago when they used to run or ride a bike, but most have no idea of what’s involved.

  Finally, he hears the inevitable question: “Are you going to win?”

  Steve carefully explains that while he’ll certainly be ahead of me, he’ll probably be closer to the last finisher than to the winner.

  This dose of reality is usually unacceptable to his listener. Steve is exhorted and encouraged to hang in there. “You never know,” they say, “the other athletes may have a bad day, they may have injuries or illnesses or accidents. You might finish first. Never give up.” This is great advice from someone sitting on a sofa at home drinking beer, but it’s pointless for Steve and me.

  Afterward, we both laugh and speculate on what it would take for Steve to win. Maybe a fulminant cholera epidemic that providentially spares elderly men from Mississippi, or perhaps a massive earthquake that swallows the entire hotel while we’re out eating supper.

  It’s really impossible. We figure that guys like Steve and I are destined for the bottom half. We can only dream of finishing first. Our day will never come.

  Finally, though, I figure it out, there is a way for Steve to win. If I could only convince the race officials to take the total time that each athlete spends talking on the “free telephone” and subtract it from the finishing time, Steve would win going away. This man may not be much of a triathlete, but he sure knows how to take advantage of a free telephone.

  Race morning eventually arrives and we’re both well rested, although Steve’s voice is still a little tired.

  First up is a 1.2 mile swim in the Gulf. There’s a big crowd of swimmers and some large waves but things go pretty well. I try to stay relaxed and I do my best to sight the buoys at the top of the waves. These round buoys seem like little red dots that pop up and down out of the water line like targets in a video game.

  I’m comfortable for the entire swim, and in no time at all I’m out of the water and jogging up the beach to the transition area.

  About 10 miles into the bike leg I hear the dreaded “whoosh” sound. For a couple of seconds I’m hoping and praying it’s coming from the bike I just passed, but no such luck. That noise belongs to me. I’ve got a flat tire.

  Triathlons aren’t like the bike races you see on television. No one hops out of a car following behind me and hands me a new wheel. I’m on my own. I’ve got to change my own flat tire.

  Quickly, I’m off my bike and struggling around on the side of the road as cyclists speed past. Everything seems awkward, I wish I had a stool to sit on. I fumble getting my rear wheel off, manage to loosen the tire, and remove the old tube. I check for a piece of glass or rock, insert a new tube, and inflate the tire with a CO2 cartridge. It has taken a long time but I’m just about ready to get going again. Most everyone who passes yells words of encouragement. I’m hanging in there, I tell myself. So what if it takes 20 minutes to change a flat, I’ll make up the time.

  I’ve barely gotten back on my bike when “whoosh,” it goes flat again. This isn’t supposed to happen. I check my wheel to make sure that I didn’t pinch my tube. A new tube and another CO2 cartridge follow, but no luck.

  Time rolls along but my bike hasn’t moved an inch. I’m sitting on roadside gravel, hunched over, stiff as a board. As the day gets warmer and warmer, my frustrations rise. I borrow another tube but the problem persists.

  Eventually a pickup truck comes by with a large sign in the window, “Bike mechanic.” I flag him down, here’s the help I desperately need. The driver doesn’t have another tire, he doesn’t have another tube, either. He doesn’t even have a pump. He’s not exactly a bike mechanic, he’s really more of a guy with a pickup truck whose job it is to take people with broken-down bikes back to the transition area.

  Discouraged, I load my bike into the pickup and settle in for the ride back to the start. Major questions fill my mind. How can I expect to complete an IRONMAN® Triathlon if I can’t even finish half the distance? What if I have a flat tire in Brazil? How do you say, “Please fix my flat” in Portuguese? If our country can put a man on the moon, why can’t we make a bike tire that doesn’t flat? Good questions, but no answers.

  Back in the transition area I dump my wounded bike and head out on the run. If I can’t complete the triathlon at least I’ll get a good workout. The 13.1 miles are difficult. I feel so slow that I seem to be crawling, not running. Struggling with a flat tire has done nothing for my body or soul.

  It’s a long, slow ride from Panama City back home, a journey filled with remorse and regret, almost funereal. I describe the sordid details of the weekend to my wife—Steve’s love affair with the telephone, my bumbling bike repairs, the humiliation of failing to finish. She smiles, “It’s just a race, nobody died. You need to grow up.”

  Life marches on.

  The next couple of weeks pass quickly. I’m checking and rechecking, packing a lot of stuff to eat, trying to figure out how to load my bike in its travel case, hoping that I don’t forget anything. I want to bring everything I could ever possibly need.

  After all, I’m going to Brazil, home of the mighty Amazon River and the great tropical rain forest. I’ve seen enough movies and I know what to expect. It’s a great big jungle full of menacing threats—schools of dangerous piranha that can strip the flesh off a human being in seconds, giant serpents that can squeeze the last breath of air out of a weak body like mine, stone-age natives ready to feast on my old carcass. This is no trip for a sissy. There’s a good chance I may not come back alive.

  But wait, I’m not going to that part of Brazil. The race is being held at Florianópolis, one of the greatest places in the world, a modern-day paradise. Veja magazine, a popular Brazilian weekly, called it the best place to live in Brazil. Newsweek named it one of the ten most dynamic cities of the world. Nature reserves, great surfing, wonderful seafood, beautiful vacation homes, Florianópolis has it all. Everyone wants to go there.

  There are over forty beaches on the island and apparently they are all populated by the right kind of people, the in-the-know crowd. No riff-raff is allowed on Florianópolis. How do I know this? The hallowed New York Times named Florianópolis its “Party Destination of the Year.” This designation isn’t just for Brazil or just for South America, this is for the entire world. Who knows who I’ll run into on this trip? I need to be prepared to have a good time. Needless to say, the Times described the island and its night life in glorious terms, pointing out that “affluent Brazilians and in-the-know internationals have taken the party to Florianópolis.” This is amazing, I bet you have to agree to drink and dance all night, every night, before they’ll even let you on the island.

  “In-the-know international,” that must be me. I’ve always felt I had a jet-set gene tucked away somewhere in my genetic code, waiting for the right moment to be fully expressed. It has lain there dormant, unused, mainly due to lack of funds, for a good half century. These people are the very essence of wealth, class, and power. This is my kind of place, this is the moment I’ve been waiting for.

  Florianópolis, here I come.

  I’ve got my Portuguese dictionary packed. Over the years, I’ve pecked away at learning foreign languages. Trying to master another tongue is relaxing in its own way, it’s like working a crossword or solving a Sudoku puzzle. It’s mental massage for the weak minded.

  I’m pretty decent at French and can get by in Italian, so the switch to Portuguese isn’t real hard. The grammar is the same, the words are the same, it just sounds different. I keep telling myself that I’ve never met a reflexive verb I didn’t like, that the subjunctive is one of my favorite moods.

  Getting into my Portuguese mode is a standard routine for me. Grammar books and a dictionary, plus listening to audiocassettes to and from work. Toda
y’s Internet resources make it even easier.

  No one in my area speaks Portuguese, so I spend time talking to myself.

  “Como vai o senhor?” “Muito bem, obrigado.”

  When I see my patients, I ask them questions in Portuguese—only in my mind, of course.

  The overnight flight from Miami to Rio de Janeiro takes around eight hours. I board a nearly full plane; most everyone had come aboard at New York, the originating city. My first challenge is to slide in next to an enormous man, who practically overflows into my seat. He has to top out at over 300 pounds. When he talks, his whole body shakes and wiggles. I feel compressed like a sardine; I know by the time I get to Brazil I’ll probably be six inches narrower in the hips.

  His name is Tomás and he’s the first Brazilian I’ve encountered. My Portuguese rises to the occasion.

  “Boa noite,” I say, “Como vai o senhor?”

  “O senhor fala português?” he exclaims.

  “Muito pouco,” I reply. Just a little.

  “Não falo inglês,” he states. He doesn’t speak English. In reality he does speak English, just like I speak Portuguese. To paraphrase Bill Clinton, it depends on what the meaning of “speak” is.

  We may not be able to get a job at the United Nations, but no matter, we’re off on an extended conversation, chatting back and forth, communicating remarkably well. Tomás gently corrects my Portuguese and I help him with his English.

  We’re barely off the ground when a flight attendant comes by. There’s a rapid fire exchange between Tomás and the young lady, and soon a couple of cold cans of Antarctica appear, one for me and one for Tomás. How does Tomás know I like beer? Antarctica is one of the great Pilsner beers of Brazil. Like any good drink, much of the enjoyment is due to where you drink it. I’m on my way to the party capital of the world, so the Antarctica has got to be special.