Iron ordeal

Men's Fitness, March, 1999 by Tom Weede

As I fight my way to the bike finish, I negotiate one last very steep hill, standing on the pedals. My left quadriceps starts to seize up. In the transition area, a volunteer grabs my bike. I hurry to the changing tent, then struggle into my running clothes.

Running man

As I head out on the run, one thing becomes obvious within the first five yards: The unremitting winds have exacted a nasty toll. My legs feel like two lead stumps, and a sense of dread consumes me. In a triathlon, transitioning from the bike to the run throws the system into a state of shock. Today, my body has spent more than six and a half hours performing a repetitive motion - my legs turned over some 35,000 times during the ride - and now my muscles, tendons and ligaments must adapt to a different movement. They resist, and it will take half the marathon to flush out the effects of the windy ride and get used to the new stress I'm imposing on them.

Making matters considerably worse is a hill in the first couple of miles. My legs and mind give in and I walk it. Defeated, I wonder how long it will take to just walk the whole damn marathon.

I swear silently to myself that I will never do this again. But I know I probably will - I'm addicted to the euphoria of crossing the finish line. It started with my first 5K race seven years ago, when John talked me out of the slothful couch-potato life I'd fallen into in graduate school. With virtually no running background, a poor diet and almost no training, the last mile of that 5K is still one of the toughest miles I've struggled to finish. But I loved the challenge of training for a race, and I soon graduated to 10Ks, then half-marathons, then marathons, then triathlons - always upping the ante with more distance, like an addict needing an ever-greater fix to maintain the buzz. Five years ago I would never have dreamed of doing this, but by increasing the goal year by year, my body has adapted.

For the next 11 miles, I intersperse my running with walks. Needing a jolt, I start drinking Coke at around mile seven. My plan was to stay off cola until at least mile 13. Now that I have tasted the sugar and felt the caffeine rush, I know that my body will demand more, and soon. I'm in survival mode ...

... The streets in Lancaster, California, are long and stretch straight to the horizon, and in August the temperature in this high desert town easily tops 100 degrees. Perfect to simulate Hawaii. I plan to run a four-mile loop six times, with my friends Hernando and Ubaldo giving me water when I pass their house. I go out too hard, and on my fourth loop I bonk and barely have enough energy to stagger to a small park. Lying on the grass and enduring bewildered looks from locals, I beg a Pepsi off some guys and start to feel better. When I finally manage to move, I get up and finish the 24 miles, having learned two important lessons: Even if you feel bad now, you'll feel better later, and Pepsi can be your very best friend ...

Around mile seven, the course heads back out into the lava fields. There is a long line of runners both in front of me and behind me.