Even early that August morning, we could tell the day was going to be steamy.
At the Prairie Creek Reservoir in Muncie, not long after the sun had come up, air and water were about the same temp — in the high 80s — and equally dense.
This was 25 years ago, in 1995. I was about to begin the Muncie Endurathon, a qualifier for the Ironman Triathlon.
I wasn’t aiming for the Ironman. I was heading into my late 30s and had been doing triathlons for a decade. I loved the sport, the feel of my heart beating, my blood pulsing and my breath rising on a sunny day.
But I knew my window was closing. I’d begun to rack up both injuries and additional responsibilities.
Doing the Endurathon — swimming 1.2 miles, biking 56 miles, then running 13.1 miles — seemed a good way to close a chapter.
To seize a moment.
The start of a triathlon is always an exercise in confined chaos. Limbs flail and the water churns as dozens of bodies thrash, looking for a clear route in which to swim.
That day’s conditions heightened the confusion.
Strong swimmers time their breathing with precision. They inhale in the fraction of a second their mouths are out of the water and exhale through their nostrils into the water. They calculate when to take that quick pull of air into their lungs by noting not just the difference in the density between water and air but also the change in temperature.
That’s hard to do when there is no difference.
I’d never been in a race in which so many people — all good swimmers — stopped in mid-stroke to gag.
It was a sign of how difficult the day was to be, one in which a quarter of the field wouldn’t finish the race.
I’d been prepping for months. I was still in my newspaper days then. Before and after work and on lunch hours, I’d log lap after lap in the pool and pound out miles running over sidewalks, streets and trails. One evening a week and over the weekend, I’d slip into the saddle of the bike and pedal 60, 70 or 80 miles over Indiana backroads.
I was as fit as I’d ever been — and focused.
When the woman who was to become my wife and the mother of our children asked me to travel east to attend her sister’s wedding, I hesitated. The wedding was the weekend before the race.
But I knew how much the wedding meant to her and how much she meant to me, so I went.
Her brother — my soon-to-be brother-in-law — said he’d figure out ways for me to stay in training. He took me for a long swim in a nearby lake. A friend of his accompanied me on a lengthy trail run, where I spent much of my time planting my feet with care, praying I wouldn’t twist an ankle.
When we returned from the wedding, my wife-to-be came to Muncie to cheer me on.
I moved through the water according to plan. My left shoulder wasn’t working as it should — another nagging injury — so I wanted to conserve energy in the water for what was to come.
That was what appealed to me about triathlons.
Talent, of which I had only a modest amount, mattered.
But overcoming obstacles and summoning sheer determination counted, too.
The bike ride was brutal. The sun broiled both road and riders. Some competitors collapsed in the heat. One guy riding just in front of me fainted, then veered hard to the right and took a header as we approached an aid station.
The run was even worse. Four miles in, my calves started seizing up. I’d have to stand or even sit by the road and massage them until I could lurch my way along again. Every mile or two, I’d have to repeat the process.
That was the point of triathlons.
Figure it out.
Keep moving forward.
Get the job done.
The woman who would be my wife and the mother of our children was waiting when I half-ran, half-limped across the finish line. God love her, she even hugged me, though I was a sweat-soaked mess.
That race was over.
But the lessons — well, they linger.
John Krull is director of Franklin College’s Pulliam School of Journalism and publisher of TheStatehouseFile.com, a news website powered by Franklin College journalism students. Send comments to dr-editorial@greenfield reporter.com.
