Against the Odds

by John L. Pendergrass

  Dinner soon follows with a couple more beers for each of us. Tomás and the flight attendant seem to have a good thing going. From time to time she’ll look at me and I’ll say, “a mesma coisa,” but otherwise I just smile and act like I understand the conversation.

  I’m a little tired, my day started over sixteen hours ago, but my Portuguese seems to improve by the minute. I’m telling Tomás all about my upcoming race. I toss out the words “natação,” “ciclismo,” and “corrida” (swim, bike, and run) with seemingly great precision. I even use kilometers instead of miles when describing the race distances. Numbers are always difficult for me and I’m not sure if I shortchanged or overhyped the event.

  Tomás is only mildly impressed, if he’s impressed at all. It doesn’t matter, he catches the flight attendant’s attention and another round of Antarcticas follows.

  Tomás shares some of his story with me. He is 45 years old and lives in Curitiba, a city in southern Brazil. He’s back from visiting a cousin and a few friends who live in Queens but work in Manhattan in the West 46th Street area.

  I return from my third or fourth trip to the restroom while Tomás sits relaxed working on another beer. He hasn’t stirred from his seat the entire trip. This man has a bladder capacity appropriate for a man of his girth.

  Time passes and Tomás and I start to exchange a few jokes. He is mostly telling and I am mostly listening. After each punch line, Tomás laughs and laughs. His living space expands and mine contracts. My insides, including my bladder, are being put to the test.

  I don’t mind too much though; my wife says I’m an agreeable person after a few drinks. Besides, my Portuguese is getting better and better. I’m able to understand much more, my accent is greatly improved. I certainly feel more confident, more verbose. I’m no longer speaking the Portuguese for Dummies variety, I’m letting loose with the real thing.

  Then it dawns on me. I’ve made a major finding, something so profound that it could change the way we live. I’ve discovered the Second Thermodynamic Law of Beer Drinking. The First Law, very well known at least since the time of Chubby Checker, states in a precise and simple way: the more beer you drink, the better you can dance. Thousands of college students can vouch for the validity and importance of the First Law.

  My Second Thermodynamic Law of Beer Drinking is both basic and practical. It states: the more beer you drink, the better your foreign language skills. I’ve proved the Second Law to be true on this flight and I’ll confirm my findings many times on this trip. I tell Tomás about my important discovery, but I think he misses the significance of my findings. He laughs, he thinks I’m telling him a joke.

  Tomás and I part ways at customs in Rio de Janeiro. He moves a little slowly but seems no worse for the wear. Me, I’m happy to have my feet on solid ground. My bedtime was hours ago. I wonder why my head hurts, why am I so thirsty, why are my eyeballs sore?

  I can immediately tell I’m in a great nation, a place that has its priorities in order. The main airport of the country’s most famous city isn’t named for a military leader or a politician or a scientist. There are no statues of forgotten figures. Brazil knows what is important. This airport bears the name of Antônio Carlos Jobim.

  In a country known for music, Jobim is undoubtedly its most famous musician. He joined with Vinicius de Moraes and João Gilberto to popularize the great Bossa Nova sound of the 1960s. A unique fusion of samba and cool jazz, the Bossa Nova dominated the decade. Decades later, his most famous song, “The Girl from Ipanema,” still seems to meander through my brain at the strangest times.

  I like this music. It reminds me of a nice lounge—soft seats, dim lights, good drinks, and relaxing sounds. A place where the music complements, but doesn’t overwhelm, the conversation.

  I guess it also reminds me of the 1960s. What great years. In those days I could get out of bed in the morning without every part of my body hurting. I could cross the 9:00 p.m. threshold without falling asleep. No one was calling me to buy a Medicare supplement. Medicare hadn’t even been invented. Life was cheaper and easier.

  I can’t live in the past, though. The future and all the IRONMAN® glory awaits. I’ve got places to go and things to do. The 1960s are history and Antônio Carlos Jobim is no longer with us.

  Unfortunately, neither is my bicycle.

  I grab my suitcase from the luggage carousel and then wait and wait for my bike. I search all the odd places where baggage handlers sometimes dump a big bicycle case. No luck, no bike. How can something so big be misplaced?

  This is the biggest race of my life and I don’t have a bike. I’m like A-Rod without a bat or Tiger without a putter (or more realistically, like my Uncle Fred without a hearing aid). I can’t function. I want my bike and I want it now.

  The man at the baggage claims office takes my information and tries to reassure me, “Not to worry, João,” he says, “The people in Miami, he screw up. The bicycle, she will come to you. You should now go away.”

  “She will come to me? You should now go away?” My last beer was a good three hours ago and my Portuguese has slipped quite a bit, there’s not much I can say or do. It’s just another bump in the road. What else can go wrong?

  Bad weather and flight delays conspire to stretch the day even more and I finally arrive in Florianópolis late in the evening. My bike is missing in action and my body feels like it has been run over by a truck. I know things have got to get better.

  My first encounter with Florianópolis is not what I expected. The wind is blowing at least 35 miles per hour and the hotel looks nearly deserted. The in-the-know party crowd must have turned in early. I lay in my bed, too tired to sleep, and listen to the roar of the wind. Fast moving shadows of the palm trees outside my room dance across the wall. In Mississippi, this is known as a tropical storm. I’m not sure what they call it in Brazil.

  The next day I read that the port has been closed because of strong winds and high seas. However, it doesn’t seem quite as bad as the previous evening so I decide to go for a swim. I tiptoe out into the Atlantic and plunge in. There’s a lot of up and down bouncing around and brisk waves pummel me like a punching bag. It’s hard to tell what direction I’m going, will I wash up somewhere on the African continent? Is there such a thing as a salt water piranha? I’m beaten and discouraged, and I quit after just ten minutes. No bike, bad seas, not an auspicious beginning.

  There are still a couple of days until the race and the weather forecast says conditions will get better. It’s hard to imagine them being much worse. You could tell me that the world is coming to an end and I would believe it.

  I know if there’s one thing that will help take my mind off the bad weather, it’s a tour of the bike and run courses. This drive will give me a preview of how things will look on race day and will give me some new problems to worry about. No bike. No problem. Strong winds. Who cares? I’ve got this horrendously long race course to fret about.

  I cram into the back of a van with several professional triathletes as the tour heads out on the bike route. The big hills on the course prove to be no problem for the van, but I’m not sure how I’ll do on race day. I’m no van, I’ve got an old motor without much horsepower.

  If the Big Guys are scared, they’re sure not showing it. They are brimming with unshakeable confidence. They laugh and joke and banter. They talk about all the IRONMAN® Triathlons they’ve conquered in the past. Their stories go on and on and so does the race course. From time to time I toss out a comment or two, but the Big Guys ignore me. They seem to be annoyed at having to breathe the same air as me.

  Driving the race route of a long event, such as a marathon, can be very intimidating—twenty-six miles is no easy stroll. But touring the course of an IRONMAN Triathlon is not only intimidating, it’s downright terrifying. More than 138 miles total, it takes hours and hours in a vehicle to take it all in. My legs begin to get stiff, my seat hurts, and I need to use the restroom. I’m getting worn out riding this far in a van. Wha
t will happen on race day?

  I see lots of athletes out biking and running in the days before the race. Many arrived over a week ago and have been hard at work. I’ve been in a full taper mode for a while, doing my best not to overtrain. These guys are sweating while I’m resting in the shade. Am I too lazy? Is my Big Guy training program going to fail me? Who knows? I can only guess as the challenges and anxieties keep growing.

  Two days before the race I’m near the outdoor swimming pool, using the large mats as a place to stretch and loosen up. I’m trying to make a 60-year-old body work and feel like that of a 40-year-old model. I’m grunting and grimacing and snorting and making all kinds of strange noises, when I’m joined by a young couple.

  The man begins to do a series of stretches and is ably assisted by his absolutely gorgeous girlfriend. Their movements are long, deliberate, and protracted, they seem almost choreographed. Both have sculpted bodies with maybe three ounces of body fat between the two of them. This couple could be on the cover of a fashion magazine. They represent one extreme of beauty and physical fitness, while I represent the other extreme.

  They’re both from Argentina, and in their early thirties. Daniela is a physical therapist and is helping her boyfriend, Martin, prepare for the race. This is Martin’s first IRONMAN® Triathlon and he tells me he is certain he can finish in under ten hours.

  We chat a little in Portuguese but soon end up switching to English. Martin seems very dependent on Daniela, she directs the routine and he says very little. I try to be polite and I toss him a question every now and then, but Daniela and I end up doing all the talking. She tells me that Florianópolis is a popular vacation spot for Argentinians, and that they have been here several times before.

  A little later Daniela offers to help me stretch and, of course, I eagerly accept. My range of motion is about one-fourth of Martin’s but I’m not discouraged. Daniela pulls my leg this way and pushes it another way. My back is in a crazy position it hasn’t seen in decades, my legs are begging for relief. It all seems way too much for my body. I can almost hear my bones creaking. After a few minutes of this routine, I beg off.

  Daniela is a beautiful woman with a wonderful smile, and she keeps asking me these strangely phrased questions. “Does the gentleman feel less tense, more relaxed?” “Is this the gentleman’s first triathlon?” “Is the gentleman staying long in Brazil?” “What does the gentleman think of Florianópolis?”

  What is going on here, I wonder, I’ve never had this type of conversation before. Maybe Daniela is a specialist in the third-person singular. Who knows, maybe in Argentina this style of speech is used to address the elderly, a special mark of deference to senior citizens. I’m not sure.

  It’s not a problem, though, this gentleman doesn’t mind at all. This gentleman is happy to answer all questions from Daniela. After all, this isn’t Mississippi, this gentleman knows things are a little different here in the party capital of the world.

  The day before the race is normally devoted to three things: attending the race briefing, checking your bicycle and other gear into the transition area, and increasing your anxiety level from “extremely nervous” to “unable to quit shaking.”

  I’m ready to check in a bike, but I can’t. My bike still hasn’t arrived, it’s somewhere between Florida and Florianópolis in lost luggage limbo.

  Ever since my arrival I’ve been searching for my bike. Several times a day I check with the hotel, call the airline, and badger the local race officials. I even look into renting a bike or perhaps borrowing one. There has got to be an extra bicycle somewhere in the country. I need help and I need it fast.

  The local response is always the same. “Senhor, you don’t need another bike, your bike will be here by race day.” “You don’t need to worry,” everyone says with an absolute, unequivocal certainty. The sun will rise in the morning, the Amazon flows to the sea, your bike will soon arrive. They all treat me like an idiot for making these inquiries.

  My fellow athletes are sympathetic but much less certain. They have all heard stories of bicycles being sent to the wrong city, being severely damaged by the airline, or even vanishing from the face of the earth. These horror stories are very unsettling. I’m just a few steps from the crazy house.

  The morning of the day before the race I stroll through the hotel lobby after breakfast. I didn’t eat a lot, not much appetite. The last few days I’ve been living a life of quiet desperation, waiting anxiously for my bike. I wonder, will it ever show up or will I go to my grave with no bicycle? Much of my current world turns on important questions like this. An IRONMAN® Triathlon has a way of reducing life to its basics.

  Suddenly, there it is. My bike appears unannounced in the lobby, nestled in its case, pushed over to the side against a potted plant, looking no worse for the journey, anxious to be reunited with an appreciative owner.

  I take my bicycle up to my hotel room, quickly assemble it, and take it for a 10 minute spin, then I load it up and carry it to the bike check-in.

  The whole process happens so quickly. One moment I had no bicycle, a few moments later I have the best bicycle in the world. It’s a friendship renewed. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. I feel much better. I’ve got a bike. I’ve got a chance to become an IRONMAN finisher.

  In the days before the race while waiting for my bike to arrive, I try to solve the riddle of the IRONMAN bags. It’s like a Chinese puzzle with false starts, dead-ends, and detours.

  At registration, each person receives five large plastic bags for use during the triathlon. Each of these bags is numbered and labeled and holds specific items; what goes in one bag doesn’t belong in another. Mix them up at your own peril.

  To start with, there’s a bag to hold the clothing you’ve worn to the race start. After the race is over, if you’re still able to dress yourself, you’ll put on this same clothing to wear home.

  Another bag is designed to carry the biking gear you’ll need after you’ve finished the swim. Still another to store the running gear you’ll require after the bike.

  There’s a special needs bag that is accessible midway through the biking course. You can pack special foods, gels, extra drinks, spare bike tubes. I wonder if I should use this bag to store my AARP card for safe keeping. I wouldn’t want to miss those special senior discounts. There’s a similar special needs bag for the midpoint of the run. It’s a great place for some good snacks or a cold beer.

  It’s not enough to spend your free time swimming, biking, and running in preparation for a triathlon. You have to be a mental gymnast, shuffling and sorting, bagging and unbagging, hoping you’ve placed everything where it belongs. I think I’ve got the right things in the right bags, but I’m not sure. Where does this bottle of Geritol™ go? What about my Flomax™ tablets?

  Race morning finally arrives. The hurricane-like winds that I experienced on arrival are a distant memory. The weather is great, temperature in the mid-50s, low humidity, just a little breeze. It seems like I landed in Brazil years ago but it has only been three days.

  It’s a solemn group in the men’s changing tent. Everyone has finished their pre-race preparation. Most have slipped into their wetsuit and are waiting for the start. Nobody is laughing or smiling, many look worse than me.

  There is no doubt a very difficult day is in store. There will be pain and suffering in varying amounts for absolutely everyone. No one gets a pass in an IRONMAN® Triathlon.

  I spend much of this time praying to the Lord to help me survive and finish. My faith is plain and unsophisticated, I’m not above bargaining. If He wants me to drop those long Sunday morning runs and start spending more time in church I’ll do it. If the money for my new running shoes needs to go in the collection plate, so be it. I’m very open to divine intervention.

  It’s going to be a long day and I need all the help I can get. “Let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us.”

  The swim course is made up of two laps separated by a short run on
the beach. Each lap is supposed to be rectangular in shape but it’s really hard to tell. The buoys are small and not in a straight line, making them difficult to follow. I decide to stay in a crowd; I feel as long as there are a lot of swimmers around me, I should be okay.

  More than 1,000 athletes are off at the sound of the gun. I wait near the back of the pack and soon find a comfortable spot. The swimming is easy, this is the first event and I’ve had lots of rest in the last few weeks, so I have no reason to be tired. Soon, the butterflies are gone; this is the best I’ve felt since I arrived in Brazil.

  The location of the buoys still has me a little confused so I choose the longest route to make sure that I don’t cut the course. I’m not taking any chances. I’ve been behind the curve since the day I arrived. I’m afraid of making a mistake.

  The first lap is done in around 52 minutes. I had hoped to be a little faster but I’m glad I still feel fresh. I’m about to start the second lap when the two race leaders emerge. They have completed two laps in the time it took me to finish one. These Big Guys strip off their wetsuits in no time at all and vanish up the beach. I wobble on unsteady legs before heading back into the water.

  My second lap, not surprisingly, is worse than the first. A strong cross current develops and keeps pushing me laterally. If I want to reach a buoy straight ahead at the 12 o’clock position, I have to swim in the 2 o’clock direction. It becomes a chore to keep swimming in a straight line. I find I’m trying harder but going slower.

  I’m delighted to see solid ground when I finally finish at 1 hour, 56 minutes. This has been a pretty hard swim and quite a few people missed the 2 hour 20 minute cutoff time and had to drop out of the race.

  Soon I’m out on the bike, aiming to stay out of trouble. I’ve still got flat tires floating in my brain. It’s hard to believe that less than 24 hours ago I wasn’t even sure that I would have a bike to ride. Now I’m riding smoothly, almost on cruise control.