I apologize upfront if what started to be a quick race report has become quite long winded, but upon reflection, there is a lot of history that went into me competing in my first Ironman. And besides, I am a closet author posing as a businessman. My dream of Ironman started almost two decades ago while watching the Ironman re-broadcast on a cold winter's day. I remember the warming inspiration of that tropical event on a bleak northeast winter's afternoon. Back then, the Ironman was dominated by the likes of Paula Newby-Fraser, Mark Allen, Dave Scott and Mike Pigg. There was a magical aura to me about this event. Maybe it was the tropical, yet lunar like setting of the lava fields, but I think what I found most magical was the prospect of a human being swimming 2.4 miles in the ocean, biking 112 miles in huge headwinds and heat and then doing the run. Just that little 'ol marathon left after T2.

I had great respect for these professional athletes that would race head to head for the better part of the day. This was back in the day when cycling was pretty tough to follow in the states. Indurain reigned supreme in the peleton, but coverage of the tour was limited. I was starting to become a cycling fan at that point, but it was much easier to access coverage of triathlon, than it was cycling. Perhaps that was because triathlon was an American sport and cycling European dominated. (Funny how that has turned around since a former triathlete from Texas devoted himself to cycling. US now dominates cycling and are dominated in triathlon by the Europeans and Aussies.) Therefore, triathletes were my first cycling role models. (That probably explains my poor pack riding skills). I have come to be a huge fan of the grand tours. However, what I find intriguing about Ironman is that individual age group athletes like you and I can go head to head with the pros in one of the most grueling one-day endurance events in the world. No team mates to protect you. Just one 140.6 mile long race of truth. I do not know of too many other events of this stature where the ordinary man can compete on the same course as the marquis names of the sport. Can you imagine climbing Alpes Duex with Lance, teeing off with Tiger or going one vs. one with Jordan? That is where I feel the true magic of triathlon lies.

I dreamed of being one of those ordinary mortals that competed along side the endurance gods. Around this time in my life I was married with two small children, a stressful job with a lot of travel required, a house to take care of and a large mortgage to pay. My idea of a triathlon back then was work, commute and second job. I managed to get in a couple of local races even though I had no idea what I was doing and could barely swim. My first was the Pequannock triathlon, which only had a ¼-mile swim to go along with the 25 mile bike and 10k run. Perfect swim length for the aquatically challenged. Next season I tried the Wyckoff Triathlon and nearly drown in the ½-mile swim. I also competed in a race at what is now the Legends Resort in McAfee. It was the Coors Light Biathlon Series. It was a run-bike-run format with the sport's top athlete Ken Souza. Ken had a cult-like following, which was as much about his rock-star looks as it was about his athletic dominance. I remember lining up with Souza and sprinting to stay with him for like the first 30 second of the race. Big mistake!

For some reason, the sport of biathlon faded shortly thereafter. Around this time, my dream of competing in Ironman also faded. My two young kids were approaching the age where they were involved in youth sports and I was determined to be very involved in my kids athletic endeavors. I became a coach in soccer, basketball, baseball, softball in addition to a chauffeur to other sports and activities. My children were excelling in their sports and went on to work their way through the ranks of travel, all-star, regional, national and Olympic development teams. I would not have traded one second of being involved with their athletics for anything. It paid big dividends for them on a personal level and my son currently starts for a college soccer team that is ranked # 3 in the nation as we speak. However, one of the sacrifices made was the total lack of any time for me to train. So I stopped training and racing triathlon after a brief year or two stint back in the 80's. I had my priorities and my kids came first. No regrets. So I shelved the Ironman dream while I played super-dad as best I could. The dream slowly faded, but never died.

Fast-forward to beginning of the new century. The kids are almost in college and I slowly start to shake the dust off of my Ironman dream. I think to myself, "What am I going to do with myself when the empty nest syndrome hits?" At the same time "The Cyclism" has begun and I am reminded of a former romance, my love for cycling. Somehow, all of this leads me to apply for application to Ironman Hawaii. I send in a couple of years of lottery applications and tell myself, "If I get accepted, I will train". Well I never did win the lottery and it was probably a good thing as I would not have been prepared. I would not have done the event justice. In the meantime, I meet the love of my life and re-marry to my wife, Brenda. We train together and advance to the point where we run a couple marathons together. However, the marathon training is forever beating us up, so we decide to start cross training by cycling. In the back of my mind I realize that I have inadvertently returned to multi-sport, except that they changed the name to Duathlon instead of Biathlon. I guess maybe there was too much confusion between the run-bike-run event and the masses that ski around with rifles in tote.

Next, 9/11 hits too close to home and devastates our family. Training stops cold. In March 2003, I saw an add for the 25th anniversary addition of the Liberty to Liberty Triathlon. The race was being held on Memorial Day and went from the Statue of Liberty to the Liberty Bell. I knew because of the Patriotic theme, that I had to do this race and I decided to raise funds for the Red Cross in honor of a loved one lost on 9/11. I only had two months to train for that race. I was not prepared, but somehow I was determined to finish the advertised distances of one mile swim in the Hudson River, 100 mile bike to Philadelphia and 10k run. (Bike course actually wound up being closer to 80 miles.)

Race day started at dawn with a walk barefoot through the streets of NYC from the hotel to start of the one mile swim. That walk was surreal and transforming. Half-naked, we passed by the site of ground-zero. Even though sad, I did not weep. That moment reminded me of all of those that were lost and the reason I was in this special place. To honor those lost. All of my fears were lifted and I found inner courage. Looking back, I was in "the zone". My lack of training did not matter on that day. Something special had touched me inside and I knew it. It was naïve, but I had no fear that day. I knew the day was mine.

The water that day was 52 degrees. I was one of the first people in the water and it took about 20 minutes to get everyone in for the mass start on the lower west side of NYC. I thought I had adjusted to the water temperature, treading water and then the start gun went off. I was in for a major shock when I put my head and face into the water. I could barely breath as temporary panic set in from the cold. People around me were getting pulled from the water left and right because they could not take the cold. After about 8 minutes of going nowhere and just trying to adjust, I finally was able to swim. I completed the swim and headed to T1. T1 in this race was heavenly. The transition was not timed. I took advantage and headed back to my luxury hotel for a hot shower before changing into my bike clothes and made it to the meeting place for the bike start with plenty of time to spare. We were ferried across NY Harbor to NJ. The first 15 miles or so of the bike were prologue and un-timed. We then were released unto the bike course in the order of our swim finish. Pretty cool, except that I was a mid-to-back of the pack finisher in the swim. I was racing on a bike that I had never ridden before. It had just been shipped to me from my sponsor for that race, Tri-sports.com from Arizona. I had not ridden one mile on the bike, but was determined to use it in the race because of aero-dynamic design. Well, not sure if it was the aero-design or the fact that everyone was more lost than I was on the bike course, but I wound up surviving the rainy day and being lost in Camden, NJ and placed 20th overall. At the end of that day I knew that the Ironman dream was once again alive.

In September, 2003 I entered Ironman Wisconsin for the following year. One of the logistic difficulties about Ironman is that most all of the races, especially here in North America, sell out the day that they open, which is the morning after the race is held. That means that you have to sign up a year in advance. I spent that better part of that winter training for the swim, largely ignoring the bike and run. I rationalized this training method due to the fact that I had more chance of drowning in the swim than there was danger in the bike or run. Come spring time, I hit the roads and began to bike and run in preparation for Ironman. I still had a very full-time business which did not allow as much time to train, but I did the best I could with the constraints that my schedule allowed. With my kids now both off to college, I at least could train after work. Training averaged about 10 hours per week for the spring and summer and peaked around 13 hours per week. I only did one training ride that was over 90 miles and my longest run was a little over two hours. I prepared by doing a Half-Ironman in June. I was very worried, as always, at the swim start. (I was actually being a big baby was scared to death. And it did not help that my bike flatted in transition while I was putting air in it 20 minutes before the start. However, my winter of working on my technique paid big dividends. I came out of the swim fresh and ready for the bike. I felt like I could hammer my way through the bike and survive the run, so that is what did. I left it all out on the bike course and averaged over 20 mph for the 56 miles. Not bad for a rookie. I "survived" the run. Finishing the "half" was an important step in gaining confidence for the "full". However, they are NOTHING alike as I would later find out.

My Ironman took place on a Sunday. I was scoffing at the mandatory check-in on Thursday. However, I know realize that it was required. There was much more stress involved in the days prior to the race than I could have ever imagined. Meetings to attend to, group pictures with other Janus Charity Challenge fund raisers, practicing the course, getting your equipment and fuel arranged for transition and many more things that kept me running around. Thank heavens for Brenda's assistance. I think the most stressful part for me was the fact that you had to put all of your transition items and fuel needs into 5 marked bags and turn them in the night before the race, as well as your bike. I was NOT mentally prepared to part with ANYTHING the night before the race. I should have been relaxing the day before the race, but instead I spent it in my room arranging and rearranging on the hotel room beds a virtual smorgasbord of bike shorts, run shorts, bike shoes, run shoes, sun glasses, sun screen, water bottles, accelerade, endurox, gel, cliff bars, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, pretzels, trail mix, water, tubes, salt and electrolyte tables, swim goggles, swim cap, race number belt and the all important race numbers. There were six of them. I was in a state of panic arranging and rearranging what was going to go in what bag. I finally made a decision of what to bring and what to leave behind and reluctantly handed in my bike and ALL of my gear to a complete bunch of strangers. Somehow, I fell asleep by 10pm that night, but I guess the entire Madison Hilton was full of insomniac potential Iron men and women. From 2am on, all I could here were doors slamming and people milling around in the halls. I lied awake until 4am and then finally gave up and got out of bed.

At 4:30 am Brenda and I are heading through the hotel towards transition outside the adjacent convention center. There are not many people inside the hotel lobby, so I think, "We are early, no one else is up yet, well at least there will be no lines for body-marking or check-ins". As I reach the transition area, I am stunned to find out that I am possibly the last one out of bed this morning and it is still pitch dark. What is wrong with these people? Are they super-human to think that they can get no sleep and race for up to 17 hours? I feel like a wimp having complained about my 4 hours of sleep because there are probably a thousand people already up and on-line to have some volunteer mark their arms, thighs and calves in black marker. The body marking is a right of passage of sorts. A tattoo, even if temporary, that initiates you into a special and elite club. I next went to visit my bike in transition, having missed her dearly as we slept apart that night. For all my preparation the prior afternoon, I realized that I had no water ON THE BIKE. I managed to find some and them heading in the dark down to the swim start area.

I was still in street clothes and figured I should now put my wetsuit on and get into the water to loosen up a little. Well I was so nervous about the swim that I was in the either on line for the port-a-john or in it for the next hour following this routine. Wetsuit on, enter port-a-john, wetsuit off. Repeat about every 8 minutes. As the sun started to rise, I headed to large lake to swim around a bit. This race had a mass start and that meant 2500 athletes of all different swimming abilities treading water until a gun shot off and mass chaos began. Being a newbie (It was funny how at the Eagleman half-ironman that they put a Big "V" on my hand indicating "Virgin" since I had never done a half before. It was conveint in case of poor performance I could always blame it on inexperience. After all, I was sporting the Big "V" for all to see. ), having a fear of open - water swims and having no prior experience in a large mass start, I decided to secure a spot near the back of the pack with the other nervous or slow swimmers. Once the gun went off, and I spent about 5 minutes swimming I realized I should not be where I was. I should have started much further up because I spent the first 20 -30 minutes climbing over people. For all of my pre-race jitters, I was very at ease and calm in the water. I attribute that to one DVD I purchased from Total Immersion and the 6 months I spent in the pool trying to master these drills. About 30 minutes in I had caught up to those who swam about the same pace as me. This made things easier much easier for me as I could just swim without having to navigate around bodies. My style in the water is totally one of ease and relaxation. I could see all around me people swimming with flailing arms and legs churning like a propeller. I had a smirk on my face as I knew that the efficiency of being balanced and clean through the water would allow for less drag. In addition, I was hardly kicking, so my legs were saved and my heart rate was down. I knew that the others were expending tons of energy and I was loving every second of it. I knew they were mine when we exited the water. As we headed to the exit, there were thousands of screaming fans. It was intense and I was so psyched to have finished my first Ironman swim. After all, this was the part I feared the most. (I would later find out I should have feared the final leg the most, but hey, if I didn't finish the swim, I would not have been able to continue.) As I exited the water I was pointed towards the wetsuit strippers. I thought. "Damn, I knew I should have brought along a wad of singles." But alas, there were no strippers of that sort. The strippers were there to strip me. I had no idea what to do and they told me to lie on the ground as they yanked on my wetsuit. Honestly, I could have gotten off quicker myself, but no problem, the day is long.

T1 in Ironman Wisconsin is cruel, but I loved it. I was so high and pumped on finishing the swim and finishing it well, that the 200 yard barefoot sprint and then climb up the steep, spiraling, four story helix to the top of the convention center seemed like a walk in the park. The entire helix was lined with spectators on both sides and I was passing people the entire way. Most people were crawling up at a snails pace. T1 continued into the convention center where you were lead to a conference hall with 2500 bags in number order. You find your bag and head to a changing room. Opting for real bike shorts in lieu of the tri-shorts, I figured that since I had never ridden anything close to 112 miles I was going to be in need of all the padding I could find. You are required to have your bike shoes and helmet on, as well as your race number, before leaving the convention center to enter the seemingly endless sea of bike racks. I managed to remember of all of these items and waddled in my cleated shoes out to find my bike. I found it and was thankful that I had not flatted from the expansion forces of the now baking sun. I was about 3 seconds down the helix when I hit the first speed bump and someone yells, "You dropped your water bottle". It took a few seconds for me to realize she meant me, but there was no way I was dismounting and going uphill to retrieve my water bottle. I had water in my front hydration system ("Hydration system" is just a way of justifying a water bottle with a straw that costs $30.00) that sat between my aero bars so I risked not needing the bottle that fell out.

It was very hot the day of the race, sunny and 85 degrees. Hydration was key on the bike. Every 10-15 miles there was an aid station. There you could grab a few water bottles as you rode by. I wound up losing every water bottle that I put in that rear-mounted cage. It was mounted behind me and I could not do much to correct the fact that it was too loose. About 40 miles into the first of two loops I just said forget about the rear cage. I filled the aero bar hydration system with a Gatorade while riding past each aid station and dumped a few water bottles inside my singlet. I managed to do well with hydration on the bike.

I had a plan on the bike. I was not going to hammer from T1 like I had done in my previous races. The day was hot and windy, the course was hilly and I had read in an article by, ultra-endurance athlete, Gordo Bryn that the Ironman does not really begin until about 60-80 miles into the bike. With that knowledge, I just kept my heart rate low, around 140. That is with the exception of the hills.

There are some big hills in Wisconsin. The big rollers were fine with me. I would get real aero on the downhill approach and coast three quarters of the way up the climb. There were a couple of descents where I was downright scared. The first was on a road that was more gravel and dirt than it was paved. Since I was not equipped with rock-shocks and knobby tires, I thought it better to play it safe. The second was a long descent down a winding road that brought back memories of trying to chase Bob, Kevin and Barry down Hawk's on our Amish Country Tour. I also remembered something that Bob had told me; "That the descents usually don't make or break your race". I was racing on my Kestrel, which incorporates very steep geometry, and such is not so stable in long, steep, sharp turn descents. And since I couldn't stay with the Skyland's men when on my Trek, I figured to not take any risks on the Kestrel, and just white-knuckled it.

There was a climb about 45 miles in that was steep and thus marked as the "Highest Degree of Difficulty". The climb was not all that long in my eyes, at least not the first time through. But the second most difficult climb was cruelly located about a mile up the road. The fans at the biggest climb were awesome. They lined the street on both sides, music blaring, cow bells ringing, silly costumes, screaming at you. It was probably a dumb thing to do, but I was caught up in the moment red lined it all the way up the hill. For a brief moment, I felt a small piece of what Richard Virenque felt on Bastile Day. The second time through was even better. It was now 90 miles into a hot day and it was time to punish on the hills. I weigh too much to be a climber by any stretch of the imagination. But there is a difference between riding with roadies and triathletes. I was prepared for the hills for a few reasons. One is I live in Sussex County where it is hard to ride more that a few miles without hitting a hill. Training when at home routinely consists of climbs with recoveries in between. No need for the aero bike in Sussex County. An even bigger reason for my confidence in the hills are my new found friends and team mates at Skylands Cycling. They are a talented lot, yet very understanding and helpful with neophytes. The amish country tour was a blast and I was taught what it means to climb during our "warm-up" 10 miles into the first day with the climb up Hawk Mountain. That first day was epic for me and mentally prepared me for Ironman. Especially after I missed the turn at the top of the last big climb and did not realize it until I was at the bottom and had to go back up. Finally, I spent a weekend riding a few long days over some of Vermont's Gaps. All in all, I was more than prepared for the hills. However, the last 22 miles after the big climb the second time around were very painful.

I was running out of energy. I had never ridden more than 90 miles and was now racing past that distance, having already completed the swim. In addition, I was not able to eat on the bike except for gel. I had a wide array of food, but due to the heat and the effort, I was not able to stomach anything. I had what proved to be a great bike segment for me, averaging 18.43 mph for 112 miles and passing 487 people in moving up from 1266 place at T1 to 779 at T2. I knew I was in trouble and could not wait to get off or the bike. Be careful what you wish for!

I climbed the helix once again, this time on bike, to arrive at T2. At the dismount area, a volunteer takes your bike from you are directed towards another room inside with another 2500 bags to sort through. When I got off the bike, I almost fell. My legs were shot and could barely hold me up. I was disoriented as they lead me into the convention center, which was packed with people. So many, that they needed barricades. It was an amazing feeling to have people lined up like 6 deep inside the transition area cheering for you.

I tried to force down a half a sandwich and some gel, took way too long to get changed into running clothes and then headed out into the heat again. Volunteers drench you in sunscreen which is a good thing since there is no place to hide from the bright sun on most of this run course. Somehow, I managed to find my legs and run, if you can call it that, through the first 8 miles, walking the aid stations every mile. That was cool with me since it made it easier to eat and drink. It all went downhill from there. From 8 miles to the half marathon mark, I probably averaged about 10% run, 40% jog, 50% walk. I finished the half marathon in 2:23, averaging 10:59 per mile. And oh yes, I had one of those celebrity moments nearing the end of my first lap on the run course. The two leaders of the race passed me. I was not feel "special" about that moment at all. I wanted to be where they were, near the end. Instead I still had 13.1 miles to go.

As I began my second half marathon of the day, I began to question how I was going to make it through to the end. I ran where the big crowds were located, but walked during the most of the rest of the course. I would play mind-games with myself, like "Can I make it two minutes without walking". That later deteriorated to the point of "Can I make it to the next cone?", which was 10 feet away. During the marathon I realized that I was no longer racing. I was merely surviving. At first that was hard to swallow based upon the fact that I had done so well on the bike. But during the marathon there is a lot of time to think and to reflect. You go through so many emotions in your most difficult hours. You are left alone, stripped of all pretenses and are given the rare opportunity to see very deep inside of yourself: a place very rarely visited. You see and learn things about yourself during these times that you would probably never have learned; some likeable, some not. Somewhere along the way, you reside yourself to the fact that you are who you are at that moment, and you make the best of it.

In the end, I got what I paid for. I did not train enough for the run, but I did my best within the constraints of my busy life. It may not have been in the grand manner that I had envisioned and dreamed of, but I was content and at peace with myself for having persevered. And as I was approaching the end of my Ironman, I saw those people who were just heading out to start their second half marathon and my perspective changed to one of feeling lucky, even though my pace had slowed to 14:56 average for the second 13.1 miles. As I sprinted towards the finish line I felt blessed to be there. It was always my dream to become an Ironman, and now that I have that title, I realize that the true beauty and worth is not in the day, title or finish attained. In Ironman, as in life, I am thankful for the reality of being able to swim my next stroke, pedal my next revolution or run my next step. The journey from Ironman dream to reality was much more rewarding than the actual event.

I wound up finishing my first (but not last) Ironman in 13:24:07. I wound up raising close to $1,000.00 for my charity and I thank all of those who supported my efforts, both financially and spiritually……Steve