This leg of the race takes forever, sometimes even longer if you have a flat tire. Each of the two laps has three nice hills going out, a tour of downtown Florianópolis, and then the same three hills coming back. It’s late morning on a pleasant Saturday in May, and many people are out and about shopping. The roads are full of traffic and there is just one lane blocked off for cyclists. Everyone in Florianópolis is tending to their own business; no one seems to notice the triathletes.
The first 56 mile loop goes by quickly. I’ve got fresh legs, they’re working fine at present, but in the back of my mind I know they could reach their expiration date at any moment.
I’m really worried about getting dehydrated. Everything I’ve read and heard says drink, drink, drink, so I really press the fluids, alternating water and Gatorade™. This results in three pit stops on the first lap alone with no toilets available on the route. I stop on the side of the road, act like I’m alone in the Amazon rainforest, and go about my business. The passing motorists all honk; maybe they are paying attention after all.
One or two miles before the end of the first lap, the two leaders pass me on the bike. They’re finishing the final lap. It’s a very impressive sight. They are escorted by eight fully uniformed motorcycle police. The Big Guys, separated by a couple of bike lengths, are flying. Lights are flashing, sirens are sounding, these boys are moving. It’s like the tortoise and the hare, but I’m under no illusion, this tortoise has no chance. The hares will win today.
As I head out on the second lap, I seem to handle the trio of hills surprisingly well. I’m some eighty miles into the bike leg and I’m still feeling decent. I think to myself, maybe I’m in better shape than I thought, maybe sixty really isn’t that old. Each month I read the AARP magazine and learn that seventy is young, just a brief interlude before those exciting eighties. Still, I keep getting solicitations for a strange variety of products—long-term care insurance, hearing aids, trousers with expandable elastic waist bands. I wonder, will I ever need those old-timers goods? The way I’m feeling now, I could ride this bike all the way to the great transition area in the sky.
As I turn around and head back in for the final 30 miles or so, the reason for my burst of energy and optimism becomes obvious. A nice tailwind had popped up on the outward bound leg of the second lap and pushed me along. Now I have to fight the big hills coming back directly into a headwind.
I’m beginning to get tired; it’s a long struggle, the hills are much steeper, there’s no one to draft on. My seat is sore. When a senior citizen like me really needs help, where the hell is the AARP?
I glance down at my odometer, ninety miles in the bank. Hang in there. I ride and ride and ride. I must be near the finish. I look again at the odometer, 91.5 miles. The miles go by so slowly. Will it ever end?
It’s around 4:00 p.m. when I finally arrive back at the transition area, some nine hours or so after I started. On the bike, I pass lots of runners, some heading out, others close to finishing. The winner has been done for about 30 minutes.
I hand my bike to a race official and head into the tent to change into my running gear. My back hurts, my legs feel like rubber. I’m all hunched over. I wish Daniela was here to help me, but I know she is probably back at the hotel preparing for Martin’s post-race massage.
I struggle onto the run course and continue to encounter runners headed toward the finish. This is very discouraging. Why can’t I be fast like them, why can’t I be a Big Guy? Fortunately, I do see some other cyclists returning; at least I’m ahead of a few people.
Eventually my back loosens and I’m able to stand up straight. I’ve lost the hunchback shuffle, I no longer look like Quasimodo’s long lost brother. The sun is setting and the air is crisp and cool as the shadows fall. It’s very beautiful in Brazil. I run a few miles to the first aid station and stop for food and drink. I start up again, go for a short distance, and then stop.
My gas tank is empty; I don’t have the energy to go very far at a time. I’m reduced to running a hundred yards or so and then walking for about twenty yards. There are still twenty-four miles to go and I feel awful. Run and walk, run and walk, there’s no relief. My agony will last hours and hours; the hardest part of the triathlon has just begun.
So I putt along, trying to take food and drink, but my appetite just isn’t there. Bits of bananas and swallows of water and Gatorade are the best I can do. As the night lengthens, things get progressively worse.
At one aid station I grab a cup from the table. It turns out unexpectedly to be a warm, thick chowder and I reflexively spit it out. The aid station workers laugh and laugh, this is probably the most interesting thing that has happened to them all day. This crazy old American doesn’t know how to swallow his food, what’s he doing in an IRONMAN® Triathlon? Take him back to the nursing home.
The miles click by at a glacial pace. Every step hurts. The course is marked in kilometers, and I have trouble converting the distance to miles. It’s a very simple mental calculation but my mind is foggy and works no better than my body. I’m in survival modes and I really don’t know what finish time to expect, maybe 15 or 16 hours, I just want things to quit hurting.
Eventually I turn onto the main street, with just one kilometer to go. I make a determined effort to run the full distance. As I head into the finishing chute, there are a few dozen people milling around, a handful yell words of encouragement and a few clap.
That’s it. I’m done. I’m an IRONMAN finisher—14 hours, 20 minutes, 15 seconds.
If you ever want a super-sized serving of euphoria along with an even larger helping of relief, the finish line of an IRONMAN® Triathlon is the place to go. The feeling of accomplishment is indescribable.
I proudly accept my finisher medal and shirt and go to a nearby stretcher to lie down. I’m totally exhausted, every cell in my body hurts. The supine position becomes my preferred posture for thirty minutes or more. It feels good but I can tell my body is becoming rigid, my muscles are as flexible as a piece of concrete, so I have to move.
A helping hand gets me off the stretcher and points me to the massage tent. IRONMAN Triathlons are wonderful training grounds for massage therapy schools. There’s a nearly inexhaustible supply of badly bruised bodies in need of relief and rehabilitation. Students get to see human musculoskeletal damage taken to an extreme, a classic example of dumb people doing stupid things to their body.
My student therapist is very nice. She asks what hurts and I reply, “Everything.” She smiles. I know she has already heard that answer many times today.
Eventually, I gather my gear and head back to the hotel. I call my wife to report that she is one of the few women in town married to an IRONMAN finisher. She is genuinely happy and hopes that I’ve gotten this out of my system. “Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I’ll never hurt like this again for as long as I live.”
For the next six or seven hours I lay in bed too exhausted to sleep or eat. It’s a strange mixture of joy and suffering. The feeling of relief and accomplishment is wonderful. I’ve paid the price in training and on race day. I’m enjoying the pain, I’ve earned it.
Many people with much better credentials than I, with much stronger legs, with a much younger heart, will never accomplish what I’ve done. I’ve been in the arena and the credit belongs to me.
The sun comes up and my appetite returns with a vengeance. My hand is getting worn out from patting myself on the back, so I decide it’s time to eat. The breakfast buffet opens at 7:00 a.m. and I’m first in line, eager to make up for lost time.
If you like to eat and drink, there is no better place in the world to be than Brazil. The coffee is wonderful, it’s rich and deep brown in color. It’s served piping hot from large vats, usually accompanied by warm milk. I’m a longtime coffee addict and this is caffeine heaven for me. My friends at Starbucks would do well to buy all their coffee from Brazil.
This country has an endless array of fruits and vegetables. The commonly known oranges
, tangerines, bananas, mangoes and papayas, plus a lot of other strangely named fruits like jabuticabas and pitangas. Beef, pork, lamb, and chicken, in all sizes and cuts, along with plenty of seafood, rice, and beans. It’s all here.
It’s a great time to dine, the laws of nutrition have been suspended. After an IRONMAN® Triathlon you can eat anything you wish, as much as you want, and not gain weight. This holds true for a couple of weeks, and it’s a well-earned blessing.
I’ll further test my nutritional theory later today, but first I’m on my way to a very important destination, the race expo.
The expo is the home of IRONMAN Brazil race gear. Dozens of ordinary things that would draw little notice in the normal world have been transformed into valuable must-have items, simply by the addition of the IRONMAN name or logo. If it says “IRONMAN,” I probably need it. Most everyone else feels the same way.
I was handed a very nice finisher’s shirt when I crossed the finish line. It cost me hundreds of hours of hard work preparing for the event plus thousands of dollars in race and travel expenses. Not a wise investment from a financial point of view. Still, I think it is a great tee shirt, more valuable than a Super Bowl® ring in my mind. I’ll always treasure it and I may even ask to be wearing it when I’m buried.
Yet, at the same time, I realize this simple finisher’s shirt doesn’t do justice to my great athletic achievement. I know I was bringing up the rear of this race, and I realize the Big Guys would laugh at my time but this doesn’t prevent me from buying two more tee shirts, a nice polo shirt, a pair of biking shorts and matching bike jersey, and a great coffee cup.
The evening is devoted to a meat lover’s paradise, the churrascaria. This Brazilian-style steak house is making inroads in the United States and it’s easy to see why. We Americans like meat and calories and the churrascaria has plenty of both. In fact, if there’s a finer place on this planet to eat for ten bucks, I’ve yet to find it.
After a warm-up with the salad bar, patrons are served by passadores who continuously circulate with giant skewers loaded with cuts of meat. The various selections are grilled over charcoal or wood, and they are all delicious. This is southern Brazil and the gaucho tradition is strong and alive.
I like it all, but one particular skewer of meat stands out. The small, tasty, roundish cuts are wonderful. Golden brown, less than an inch in diameter, these delicious morsels are the perfect size, they seem to jump into my mouth. The passadore can tell that I’m enjoying his selection and he soon returns with another big serving. He smiles and pats me on the back. I think he’s telling me that I’m a true man of Brazil.
We’re all sitting at a long table enjoying the delicious food and large bottles of Brahma (another great Brazilian beer). Everyone notices my fondness for the tasty little nuggets; I stand out in a crowd of serious eaters. The passadore returns and I listen a bit closer to what he’s saying. This time, it’s as clear as day. “Dig in, don’t let your chicken hearts get cold.”
Everyone smiles. With no effort at all I’ve acquired a new name, a title appropriate for me in so many ways. You can call me Chicken Heart. These tiny hearts used to belong to some poor fowl before I started scarfing them down. In the poultry world, I’m now public enemy number one.
Chicken Heart is not exactly the same as being known as Braveheart, but it’s probably the closest I’ll ever come.
Although I’ve only been in Brazil for about a week, it seems like forever. So much has happened. It has been a time of anxiety and anticipation, followed by a Herculean challenge of finishing an IRONMAN® Triathlon and capped off with feasting and celebration. It’s not exactly “Eat, Pray, Love,” but more like, “Worry, Sweat, Eat.”
This past week I’ve had some good conversations with Paulo, one of the local guys hired by our travel group to help make sure that things go smoothly. Paulo is in his early thirties and does a little bit of everything. He’s a driver, baggage handler, tourist guide, philosopher, restaurant critic, observer of the opposite sex, and general factotum.
Paulo was there when I finished the race and helped carry my bike and gear back to the hotel. He has taught me a lot about how things work in Brazil. “Take your time,” he says, “things will work out, it’s never good to be in a rush.”
Not bad advice for someone tackling his first IRONMAN race at age sixty.
Paulo knows I’m going to be spending some time in Rio de Janeiro after the race and he encourages me to look up his cousin, Eduardo. Eduardo is a tour guide, Paulo tells me, who knows the city inside and out. With him I’ll be in good hands and I’ll get to see the real Rio de Janeiro.
That sounds good to me. I have Paulo call ahead to let Eduardo know I’m on the way. I wonder if Eduardo knows that I’m an in-the-know international?
I’ve been booked into one of the great old luxury hotels that front on Copacabana Beach. It’s a place of rich wood, thickly upholstered furniture, and loads of crystal chandeliers. Guests in bathing suits wander in and out and mix with staff dressed in dinner jackets. It’s a strange mixture of exaggerated opulence and an informal trip to the beach.
Eduardo shows up the next morning. He is in his late thirties and a law school graduate. After several years of working at a bank, the hassle and stress became too great, and Eduardo decided to quit his job. He now does a variety of part-time tasks, including serving as a tour guide. Eduardo is married with two young children and he spends a lot of time helping his wife, who works full time, to care for the children.
We get along great. There’s no tour group or tour bus. Eduardo and I travel the city by subway, by bus, and on foot. I’m eager to see as much as possible and he is happy to comply. He’s pleased I’m interested in Rio and he tolerates and encourages my fractured Portuguese.
The city has a population of around seven million people with a density greater than Manhattan. It’s a vibrant place with lots of street-side vendors hawking all types of goods. We go to most of the standard tourist sites plus a few unexpected stops. There is no rhyme or reason to our travel and we make many detours along the way.
Corcovado, the great central granite mountain of Rio, is stunning. The peak is topped by O Cristo Redentor (Christ the Redeemer), the magnificent Art Deco statue. Jesus Christ stands perched atop the city over 125 feet tall with perpetually outstretched hands, a beautiful symbol of the power and grace of Christianity.
We watch the monkeys play in trees of the forest reserve before ascending the mountain on the rack railway. The view is impressive from the top.
Rio’s other great mountain Pão de Açúcar (Sugarloaf) is accessible via cable car. It sits at the mouth of Guanabara Bay providing a notable welcome site for those arriving by sea.
Eduardo and I not only go to the top of the city, we also visit the beaches of Copacabana, Ipanema, and Leblon; we see the old cathedral and the new cathedral (I much prefer the old one); we wander through a flea market and a food market. Each day brings something new and different.
One day we head to Santa Teresa, a charming hill top area of Rio, full of narrow winding streets and lots of what my wife and daughter call “cute little shops.” The community is a favorite spot for artists of all stripes and colors and you can wander about and spend hours visiting the numerous studios and galleries.
We’re not here to shop, we both have wives who are experts at the task. It’s lunch time and we’re here to eat feijoada, the national dish of Brazil. Eduardo swears by feijoada and tells me that he has eaten it at least once a week for as long as he can remember. He is enthusiastic, so I’m enthusiastic. When it comes to food, lead me to the feeding trough and I’ll do my duty.
This restaurant definitely doesn’t cater to the tourist trade. It has all the earmarks of a beloved neighborhood joint. A small dark place well off the main street with just four tables, it seems more like a stall opening onto the alley than a restaurant.
Feijoada is basically a stew of black beans and meat parts, mostly pork. It is usually cooked in a clay po
t over a slow flame and takes a long time to prepare. Most restaurants will offer it only at lunchtime and only one or two days a week. Feijoada is a solid dish, with many large chunks of meat afloat in a broth. Several other side items are usually served with the main dish—rice, greens, and a lightly roasted cassava flour called farofa.
It’s a rich and tasty confection. The beans and broth complement each other, and most of the meat is quite tender, having simmered for hours. Some pieces, though, seem a little tough. I have to chew and chew to break them up, but that’s okay, nothing’s perfect. I work through a large helping, happy to have another good meal.
Eduardo is proud of Rio de Janeiro and enjoys showing me the sights. He is the teacher and I’m the student. There is much to see and to do, but he saves the best for Sunday afternoon. He tells me this is what Brazil is about; this is the country’s heart and soul.
Eduardo and I take the subway from downtown Rio to visit the great mother church of Brazil. We are not going to the Cathedral of Rio de Janeiro, we’re headed somewhere much more important. We are going to the great temple of Brazilian soccer, Maracanã stadium.
Soccer, or futebol as it is known in Brazil, is the one great dominant unifying feature of the country. Regardless of class, race, or geography, everyone loves soccer. It’s a vital and central element in Brazilian culture, probably more important than the Catholic Church or Carnival.
The subway car to Maracanã is packed with fans. We’re going to the stadium to watch Flamengo take on a rival team from São Paulo. There are four major soccer clubs in Rio and Flamengo is probably the most popular. It’s the team of the masses and it enjoys great support among the poor and the blacks.
Maracanã stadium is a giant, two-level concrete oval. Eduardo has gotten us seats in the less expensive upper level with all the blue collar hard core fans. The pitch is surrounded by a deep moat and seems very far away from our seats, almost a distant island.
Against the Odds Page 8
