Against the Odds

by John L. Pendergrass

  Before I leave, I ask Eddie about his remark about YouTube. “Look it up,” he tells me. I go back to the hotel and sure enough, there’s a clip on YouTube from the 1970s, dozens of deer being shot from the air. It looks like an airborne abattoir, a brutal sight.

  The Fiordland, if anything, is undersold. I’m unable to obtain a permit to hike in via the famous Milford Track, it’s a one-way journey and the number of hikers is limited. The Milford Track is often described as “the finest walk in the world” but I wouldn’t know, I’m forced to sit and ride.

  Milford Sound, the largest fiord, is a stunningly beautiful place. Glacier-carved mountains rest in a temperate rainforest, waterfalls tumble down cloud-soaked cliffs, the whole area has a primeval feeling, unchanged in the nearly 250 years since Captain Cook first arrived.

  Like so much of New Zealand, you just stand there and gape, mumble a few words to your neighbor, take a couple of photos, and move on to the next thing. Sometimes it seems as if scenic wonders should be handed out in small doses, more time should be allowed for admiration and reflection.

  I don’t see any of the red deer that my buddy Eddie used to hunt, but I do encounter a few dolphins, lots of seals, and many birds. A guide points out a pair of kea, one of the few alpine parrots.

  It’s a pleasant half-day drive eastward across the South Island from Milford Sound to Dunedin. Like all of the country, the first to live in this area were the Maori, but the main settlement was in the mid-nineteenth century by the Free Church of Scotland. This city is like a small piece of Scotland that had been created and shipped down to New Zealand. Today, Dunedin remains a university town, and for me it’s always interesting to meander about and see what today’s students are up to. Apparently, the students in New Zealand frequent the same pizza places, fast-food joints, coffee shops, movie rental outlets, and used bookstores as those in the United States. Here the beer comes from pubs but seems to be just as popular as back home.

  I’m impressed by a visit to the New Zealand Sports Hall of Fame. The Kiwis have a great athletic tradition, only 4 million people in the country yet they’ve medaled in every summer Olympic game except two since 1920.

  The Hall of Fame is housed on the top floor of the Dunedin Railway Station, an edifice constructed in the Flemish Renaissance style. I can agree with that architectural description, this building would blend right in on the streets of Bruges.

  Strangely, I’m the only visitor at the Hall. A man in his seventies awakens from his slumber and hands me a ticket and a pamphlet.

  All the great Kiwi distance runners are present: Peter Snell, Rod Dixon, Dick Quax, and John Walker. Edmund Hillary is prominently featured as well as William Hamilton of jet-boat fame. Rugby and yachting are New Zealand favorites, but activities such as shearing and wood-chopping are also recognized.

  I ask the man at the door why Arthur Lydiard, one of the founders of the modern running movement, is not included. He agrees, Lydiard is a great man and belongs in the Hall of Fame. (Later that day, I read some literature I picked up at the Hall and find out that Lydiard has indeed already been inducted into the Hall of Fame.)

  I also mention that in a few years the Hall of Fame will need room for some triathletes (I think you become eligible for entry into the Hall five years after retirement). Hamish Carter and Bevon Docherty have already medaled for the Kiwis in the Olympics, Cameron Brown would seem to be a certain inductee.

  After the Hall, I move on to one of New Zealand’s little known masterpieces of nature, the Otago Peninsula. This rugged, hilly finger of land extends from the city some twelve miles into the Pacific Ocean.

  The peninsula is famous for hosting a breeding colony of Royal Albatrosses. These giant birds have a wingspan of around ten feet and soar gracefully and effortlessly across the skies, dipping down to help themselves to the abundant squid and fish. Unlike many humans, these birds are said to mate for life.

  The Otago Peninsula also hosts a big group of Yellow-eyed Penguins. Supposedly, the penguin’s closest living relative is the albatross, but after watching the two, I find that hard to believe.

  The penguins waddle about upright, dressed in a tuxedo, oblivious to curious humans. Appearing clumsy on land and graceful in the water, the yellow-eyed penguin is one of the rarest species and is found only in New Zealand. They hang out in small groups of a half-dozen or so and avoid the huge colonies seen with many other penguins.

  Penguins are a natural draw, lovable, impossible to resist. You find them on logos, in movies, serving as mascots, a staple of children’s books and cartoons. Penguins in the land of the Scots, what could be more fun? Breathes there the man with soul so dead, who never to himself hath said, I love penguins.

  Natural beauty, wonderful people, delicious food and drink—New Zealand has it all. I hope I get a chance to come back again.

  ONE DAY in my office, a few months after my return from New Zealand, I compare notes with my old friend, Pam. She’s a lady who seems to thrive on long distances. Pam has run a marathon in every nook and cranny of the United States, and she just returned from the London Marathon. Pam has a story about every place she has been, she even has time splits for each of her races if you’re interested.

  I grab this opportunity to tell Pam about my IRONMAN® journeys. Brazil, Switzerland, South Africa, New Zealand—I do my best to make my life sound like a National Geographic special, the near equivalent of climbing Mount Everest blindfolded. Of course, I omit any mention of my mediocre finishing times; there’s no point in diminishing my achievements.

  Pam’s a runner, not a triathlete, and she’s like most people when it comes to race times. The numbers are a little foreign, a little vague. Ten hours, twelve hours, fourteen hours, what’s the difference? It comes across as a long day any way you look at it.

  Pam likes my stories and tells me I should try to finish an IRONMAN® Triathlon on every continent. According to her, there are a lot of people who try to run a marathon on each continent. She calls this a “noble goal” and makes the whole thing sound like King Arthur and the quest for the Holy Grail.

  I’ve never heard of this “noble goal” before, but I’m not surprised. I once met a man who was crisscrossing the country, running a marathon every week. He said that when his performance began to drop he started reaching for participation points, rather than time. He told me there’s even a club for people who run a marathon in all fifty states.

  This is the first time the idea has occurred to me; it’s the birth of my crazy continental IRONMAN quest. Maybe I can start my own club.

  I know there are seven continents but I’m sure I can cross Antarctica off the list. There can’t be an IRONMAN Triathlon at the bottom of the world. I saw the pictures of the Antarctic explorers Scott and Shackelton at a bar in Christchurch, New Zealand—those guys could barely walk and they weren’t carrying bicycles or swimming gear.

  That leaves six continents. Since I didn’t do my first IRONMAN Triathlon until age 60, if I can manage all six continents I can lay claim to “Six IRONMAN Triathlons on Six Continents in my Sixties.”

  The six continent journey is a great idea and I’ve only got two continents left: North America and Asia.

  There are a lot of good races in North America, so I decide to try for number five here in the United States. Florida, Wisconsin, Lake Placid, Coeur d’Alene, they all look good but I pick IRONMAN Arizona. This race is held in November so I’ll be able to do my long bike rides and long runs when it’s not so blisteringly hot. The older I get, the more the heat bothers me. Plus, the bike and run courses in Arizona don’t look very hilly. The older I get, the more the hills bother me. In fact, the older I get, the more everything bothers me.

  I try to recruit everyone I know to commit to the Arizona project; a big group of friends would make it a fun trip. I get a lot of maybes and half-promises, but in the end, my friends Tony and Steve are the only ones to ante up the wallet-thumping entry fee.

  Tony and Steve are a good choice for tr
aveling companions. These guys are definitely better athletes than me, but they’re nothing to get too excited about. They’ll finish ahead of me, but only by an hour or two. I don’t have to worry about being humiliated or embarrassed by racing with any Big Guys.

  We play the old game of signing up online a full year in advance, the very moment race registration opens. Even then it’s a tenuous thing, the overload seems to crash the system and we can’t get through to register. The three of us curse and commiserate, we talk of what might have been. Then later in the day, the computer system gets its second wind and allows us to come onboard.

  We’re all happy and excited; we’re now part of an elite group of people who pay good money to torture themselves. Besides, the race is a year away, for now we can boast and brag; we’ll worry about training later on.

  I’m delighted to be traveling with Tony, he’s a great guy. He’s a man who owes his very existence and success to IRONMAN® racing.

  It’s a remarkable story. In his early forties, Tony was floundering about, overweight and underemployed, without a lot going for him. Around this time he got into exercise and managed to eventually finish a marathon or two. Next he was struck by the triathlon bug and just a few short years later he was able to finagle a spot in the IRONMAN World Championship in Kailua-Kona, Hawaii.

  Everyone was shocked that he made it to the Big Island, a place normally reserved for the stars of the sport. We were all pleased and surprised when he managed to finish the race before the cutoff time. This is a very prestigious event and we never thought he’d be able to make it.

  Word gets around in a small town and the transformation in Tony was astonishing. He appeared on television to talk about his experience, he spoke to local civic clubs and church groups, he even turned up regularly in the local newspaper. Tony strutted about town a new man, confident and secure, sitting atop the athletic world.

  There’s no end to Tony’s IRONMAN world. Today he lives with his young wife and family in a lakeside villa festooned with race memorabilia, it’s his own personal museum. He drives a big black pickup truck powered by a V-8 engine and plastered with IRONMAN logos, visible from every angle. You can almost smell the testosterone spewing out of the tailpipe. Most of his conversations include some reference to his Hawaii trip.

  Tony even uses his IRONMAN Triathlon as a reference point for the milestones in his life. “I got married two years after my IRONMAN Triathlon,” he might say, or, “My daughter was born three years after my trip to Hawaii.” The race is an anchor in his life, the linchpin of his very existence.

  Steve and I enjoy hearing the details of Tony’s adventure. We’ve heard so much about it over the years that we sometimes feel like we’ve experienced it ourselves. Some days, it’s like that warm Hawaiian breeze blows all the way to Mississippi.

  Steve is a solid guy, a salt of the earth, bread and butter, steak-and-potatoes kind of man. In his mid-fifties, he has been delivering mail for over 30 years and has never missed a day of work. If he ran the post office, mail would never get lost or arrive late. In fact, it might even come early.

  Steve is just as consistent, just as methodical in his training as in his work; he never takes short cuts. If I can blast myself out of bed in the morning and make it to the local track, I know that Steve will be there doing his duty, pounding out the miles.

  Over the years, we’ve run together so often that we’ve learned each other’s stories. Steve will start a tale about a great race he did in New Orleans a few years back, and I am able to finish the story from memory. He does the same for me including facts about the course, the weather, who else was competing, and so on. He remembers the details I’ve forgotten and I do the same for him.

  Over the years, Steve and I have analyzed and dissected every event we’ve ever entered. We sometimes forget birthdays and anniversaries but we always remember the time splits from our best races. The minutes and seconds stick in our brains with a permanence that defies the passing years.

  Steve and I don’t have a lot to boast about but we’re both proud to lay claim to a photographic memory, an inerasable record of past athletic performances. We wish it carried over to the rest of our lives, but it doesn’t.

  The swim is held in Tempe Town Lake, a nice two mile long body of water created by damming the Salt River. The lake project was done in the late 1990s, turning a dry river bed into a pleasant spot for boating and fishing. Adjacent parks and pathways were created and upgraded as part of a Rio Salado Master Plan. Close to Arizona State University, the whole complex is made to order for hosting an IRONMAN® Triathlon.

  Tempe Town Lake has a lot to offer, but I’ll always remember it as the site of my head-on swimming collision. Through a combination of clumsiness, stupidity, and ignorance, I was able to turn a simple practice swim into a near concussion and a major facial laceration.

  What a bizarre accident. Normally, as long as you avoid drowning, swimming is one of the safest sports around. It’s easy on the muscles and joints. An IRONMAN® Triathlon is full of problems waiting to happen, but I managed to find trouble where none is supposed to exist. I have to be one of the few people to ever need suturing after swimming, maybe I should start wearing a helmet or carrying my own airbag when I get in the water.

  For two or three days before the race, officials set aside a few hours each morning for a practice swim. It’s a good time to check out the water temperature, get some course bearings, and make sure that there are no problems with your wetsuit or goggles. I normally drastically decrease my training for a couple of weeks before an IRONMAN Triathlon and at times I think that I may have forgotten how to swim. The ritual of a short swim gives me a little reassurance.

  At the practice swim, hundreds of swimmers mill about, coming and going at various times. Some are like me, just doing an easy ten minute swim, while others seem to be sprinting to stardom. Everyone climbs down the metal stairway, jumps into the lake, and turns immediately toward the starting line. The start is about a hundred yards from the steps leading into the water.

  I plunge in and stop to catch my breath. This water is cold, my face is numb and I start to get a headache. I begin swimming and go less than a quarter mile when suddenly I feel like I’ve been struck on the forehead with a ball hammer. I’m stunned, disoriented, and a little dizzy. After a few seconds, I realize that I’ve had a head-on collision with another swimmer coming from the opposite direction.

  The two of us mumble apologies and head on our way. A nearby swimmer asks me if I’m okay and tells me that I’m bleeding. I can see and feel the warm stream of blood running down my face, coating my goggles. I’ve picked up a large cut extending a couple of inches along my brow line and I’m bleeding like a stuck pig. I received a head butt laceration. It doesn’t seem fair, I’m just getting in a practice swim and I’ve managed to split my head open.

  I’m really angry with the man who cracked me in the head, I’m ready to call him to account (should I suggest Round Two?). Then Tony points to a sign at the entrance to the swim that says something like “keep to the right.”

  I was going the wrong way, a man in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was my fault, I’ve only got myself to blame.

  As I climb out of the water, bright red blood continues to pour down my face. This is crazy, I feel foolish and embarrassed. Everyone offers assistance; a couple of towels do nothing to stem the flow. A crowd gathers around to see if this elderly gentleman will be carted off on a stretcher. Finally an EMT offers some gauze pads and tape. There’s a hospital a mile or so down the road, he tells me, I need to go and be checked.

  Tony and Steve are very concerned and finally begin to treat me with the respect and consideration I’ve deserved all along. We stop at a local drugstore and get some fancy Band-Aids®. I buy several types and sizes, hoping that at least one will work. Back at the motel room I shower and wash away all the dried blood. The bandages have stopped the bleeding, but I know if the laceration reopens during the race it could be a
problem. So, I head to the local emergency room and proudly present my Medicare card. My card is just two weeks old. The bright red white and blue colors haven’t even had time to fade.

  The lady at the ER smiles, returns my card and asks me to have a seat. I spend the next two hours in the waiting room catching up on old issues of Ladies Home Journal, while Steve and Tony head out to drink beer and eat lunch.

  They arrive back at the hospital about the same time I’m finally carried back to a cubicle in a back room. They’ve discovered a good Irish pub down the road and they swear they will check back with me a little later.

  There are five or six cubicles in my new home in the bowels of the hospital and they’re all empty. This place is eerie; no one comes in, not a nurse, technician, or doctor. I wait for another two hours in complete silence. I’ve practiced medicine for 40 years, and I’ve never been in an ER like this. I wonder if they placed me in the morgue by mistake.

  This is the one day allotted for picking up your registration packet. I have to personally retrieve it by 5:00 p.m., or else I will have to walk back to Mississippi (race officials don’t say it quite this strongly, but it’s almost as serious).

  I have little choice, so I get up, walk out through the same door I came in, and head to race registration. No one says anything, no one notices, no one cares. Are they alive in this ER? Is this a mausoleum disguised as a hospital?

  I decide to leave my fancy Band-Aid undisturbed. I pack a lot of extra bandages in my transition and special needs bags. If necessary, I’ll patch myself up as needed along the way.

  I tell Steve and Tony my new plans but they don’t seem interested. They are arguing over which is the best beer—Guinness® or Harp. They’re laughing and giggling like teenagers out on the town.