Guest Post by Jamie
Ironman Coeur D' Alene
The closer I get to Idaho on my pre-race road trip from the deep south, the more Coeur d' Alene participants I see around me. It's like I can smell the excess of iron in their blood. Either that or it's the clean shaven legs on all the men. It's an odd feeling to be around so many Ironmen and women. Normally I'm all by myself in this. Most people don't even know what an Ironman really is, and outside of an actual event, I've really only met a very small handful of people who have ever done one. Everywhere I go in Coeur d' Alene I'm surrounded by them, and it feels strange to look at them and think "All these people are actually as nuts as me." It's a unique community. Ironmen know what it means when a voice over the loudspeaker announces that "strippers will be available for all the athletes" and whether or not it will be a "booty legal swim." They are concerned with things like whey vs. soy protein, and the aerodynamic difference between a regular bike helmet and one shaped like a tear drop. They are anxious, for whatever reason, to jump into 59 degree water at 7am while everyone else is bundled up in winter jackets, watching them brutally crawl all over eachother. They possess a unique grit that comes tightly wrapped in lycra spandex. I'm one of these people.
Before I jump in for a practice swim a few days before the race, I ask a guy who just came out how the water felt. "It's not that bad. I mean, unless you're coming from the south or something.." Well crap, I just came here from Louisiana. The "not that bad" water he's talking about is 54 degrees at the time, and while everyone says "yea but you're wearing a wetsuit", a wetsuit is about as good as a bullet proof vest in a SWAT team shootout. There's still a whole lot of nothin covering your face. The first 5 minutes it feels like someone is repeatedly whipping you in the face with a 2x4, but after that it goes numb, along with your hands and feet, so it actually isn't quite so bad. My sister actually had it in her to swim out to the first buoy and back without a wetsuit, a feat that if you ask me makes her deserving of a finisher's medal.
Another 10 months of training has prepared me yet again for the longest and toughest single day endurance event there is. At the butt crack of dawn, I put on my wetsuit along with 2800 other sea lion looking crazy people, after I visit the potty several times of course. As we stand there waiting like a bunch of meat ready to be thrown in the grinder, different people have different ways of dealing with the intense psycological pressure. Some joke around while others have a very serious and focused look on their faces. One poor woman has volunteers on all sides of her, hastily wrapping her rear end with duct tape. Apparently her wetsuit had torn when she was putting it on. You can plan and prepare so much for this race, and then you can still end up with a bunch of strangers duct taping your ass.
About 2 minutes to go, and I work my way through the mass of neoprene sea lions to a spot about 3 rows back from the water's edge. Through my ear plugs and double layered swim cap, I can hear Mike Reilly, the voice of the Ironman, getting ready to send us off.
I hear the cannon, and enter the mayhem that is an Ironman swim start. This time, 2800 people are cut loose like wild dogs chasing a rabbit. This is expected, but normally it thins out. for me, in this race, it never does. The following hour and 7 minutes is something I call defensive swimming. If you're farmiliar with the old Mortal Kombat Nintendo game, it's like when all you can do is hold the block button while your older brother mercilessly beats the piss out of you, then laughs as if you're actually enjoying it as much as he is. People are on top of me, people are underneath me. They claw at my legs, punch me in the head, and kick me in the eyes. I can feel my brain jiggle every time I take a beat down. Occasionally, I can actually hear people scream and curse obscenities underwater. Call me a softy, but I'm one of the courteous people that eases up a bit on my kick if I can feel a bunch of people within striking distance of my heels. Some people that I come up behind continue to kick so hard that it feels like I'm being sucked into a boat propellor. I would wear one of those boxing mouth guards if it was possible to breathe with one. After 1 lap the winds pick up and we're met with a current and nasty chop that slaps us around just to play games with us. I never know if I'll get a good breath of air with each rotation or a mouthful of water.
2.4 miles later, I'm on the beach making my way up to the even more chaotic area of volunteers stripping people of their wetsuits. It's all a blur, but I remember them pushing me on the ground, and I laid there in a complete daze looking up at the sky while 3 people give my wetsuit one strong pull, and it comes off the way that a table cloth gets yanked away leaving all the dishes behind. I think about how hard it will be to stand up, but by the time I'm half way through that consideration, they have already hoisted my carcass up, and I'm on my feet. What service!
Watching me try to put on a tight jersey over my wet skin with cold numb hands must have been like watching a small animal get tortured. It takes many attempts to get dressed while I sit there in the transition tent, but after several hours (in my mind at least) I'm ready to hop on the bike. The cool part about this course is how the transition, and surrounding area are all downtown on closed off streets. Hundreds of thousands (again, in my mind) of spectators line both sides of us as we whiz by. No, that wasn't a pee joke, not just yet..
As we go up one of the hills, we're treated to a band of bag pipers, then a stage of kids "dancing" for us. It's chilly and sprinkling, so I'm glad I put on my arm warmers. After 14 miles we pass through downtown again. The streets are densely packed with people, so I start working the crowd and they all go wild, including my loving family who have completely gone overboard with enormous signs.
Speaking of signs, this race had the absolute best collection of hilarious motivational signs. Here are some of my favorite:
We exit town on our bikes and as I get closer to the first major hill I can see the multicolored marching line of triathlete ants, slowly making their way up into the sky. After blazing through town and hearing the thunderous roar of wind in my helmet, I sit up and slowly trudge my way upward with everyone else. Near the aid stations, there are bands set up on the side of the highway, rocking out for us. I feel like I'm on fire, in a good way! For once I'm passing people on the bike. One of the best triathletes in the world, Chris Lieto, is competing in this race and I keep wondering when he'll pass me for his second lap. On an uphill headed back into town though, I come up on a guy who looks like he's in pain, and then I see his number: "2-Lieto". In awe, I pass him, not sure what to say because he's obviously having a bad race that he probably won't finish, but I say "Nice job Chris" and give him a smile. Thankfully, he didn't take my comment as sarcastic, and after looking at me with a "who the hell are you?" expression, he smiled back and told me "Nice job" too.
I'm using all new gear this time. New wetsuit, bike, clothes, and a sweet new aero helmet. It's super slick and I feel like a knife cutting through "I can't believe it's not butter". At high enough speeds, it actually acts like that helmet from the movie "The Rocketeer", which had a rudder on the back so that what's his name could steer when flying around with his jetpack. At 38 mph on a downhill, I turn my head to see if I can pass someone, and as I do I can feel my entire body shift to the side. With great power comes great responsibility. A runaway water bottle rolls down the hill and I have to slam on the brakes and swerve out of the way to avoid a wreck. On the second lap, headwinds pick up, and it seems like it takes forever to get to the turnaround. As much as I love my beautiful yellow bike, 112 miles is enough for me to want to get off of it. As I get to the dismount area, the volunteers grab my bike, I unclip from the pedals and as I throw my leg up over the bottles on the rear rack I get an excrutiating pain through my quad, like I just got stabbed. With that welcome start to my marathon, I head into the transition tent to switch shoes and stretch a little. Without my even asking, a volunteer is already helping to push my back and hips down to stretch out my IT bands. As he helps me up, I tell him he's my guardian angel and I wobble out to even more volunteers who slather sun screen all over me. This whole thing is like the machine from Wallace and Grommit that gets him dressed and makes his breakfast.
2 out of 3 done, now all I have to do is go for a little jog. At least that's what the lady passing me says. Mile 2, mile 3. The course takes us through a lake front neighborhood where people sit in their lawn chairs with garden hoses offering to spray us. Mile 4. My stomach feels empty but when I try to put any nutrition in, a big set of pliers grabs my guts and twists them like a dentist pulling out a tooth. Still, I try to force down whatever I can, and count my calories along the way. Mile 5 starts a long up hill. One of the aid stations is themed like Bourbon street in New Orleans. Everyone's dressed in purple with mardi gras beads, they play jazz music, and murals line the sides that look like New Orleans streets. When I tell them I just came from Louisiana, they all light up and cheer. After that is an odd Sponge Bob Square Pants themed aid station. The sun is finally out and lightly cooking us. All around me, people are walking, and as much as I don't want to, I have to do a couple short walks. My knee hurts, my hips hurt, I breathe heavily, and my feet weigh a thousand pounds. Hours go by.
Mile 12, 13.
We go back into town, make the turnaround, and start it all over again. At mile 15 I realize that if I can hold a slow running pace, I can beat 13 hours. 17, 18, it seems more and more far fetched that I'll be able to keep up any running pace for the remainder of the marathon. My entire body is screaming in pain. I dump water over my head, and do what I can to keep water in my belly. I pass people that are stopped, hands on their knees, and blowing gallons of puke out like old faithful.
Mile 22.
I have to walk more and more, and when I try to start back up running again, pain shoots through my body and my face shows it. My quadriceps are wrapped with barbed wire and broken glass. When I see the mile 23 sign, I think back to how impossibly hard my first cross country 5k seemed in highschool. Those 3 miles were a rollercoaster of pain, and now I'm completely relieved that I only have 3 miles remaining in this 140.6 mile long journey. A girl runs along side me and asks what the race time is. When I tell her, we both decide that we can break 13 hours, and start picking up the pace.
Mile 25.
I see the split in the road where 2nd lappers turn right, and finishers turn left. At the last turn, people on the side promise me just 7 blocks of downhill until I'm all done. This is 7 blocks of pure heaven where your feet don't even touch the ground. The crowds scream. I make them scream even louder by motioning for them to go wild. It's so fun to be able to get that many people cheering, it feels like you're a rock star. I learned that trick in Ironman Switzerland. A guy in front of me on the bike motioned to the crowd to make some noise, and the people went ape. I think that spectators love to get some attention back, and it's not always easy to give it back to them. On the run, after 138 miles, a woman on the side graciously said to the runner in front of me "You're inspiring me so much right now!" The runner never responded, and never even looked at her. Trust me, it's not disrespect, it's a level of exhaustion that makes you unable to do much of anything other than trot forward. At mile 135, I was behind 2 women that were reduced to a walk. A spectator tried to get them pumped by telling them to start running again, and the women snapped at her, saying in a pretty rough tone that they needed a moment to recompose themselves, and would soon run again. This also isn't something to be taken the wrong way, it's just a huge sense of frustration to be humbled to a walk when your legs just aren't firing anymore.
3 blocks left. I'm sprinting. This is amazing considering just a minute ago my legs felt like they weren't even connected to my body any more. I can see the finish, my hands are in the air, and Mike Reilly calls out my name. At 12:55:32 on the clock, I become a 2 time Ironman. A volunteer walks me forward, puts a medal over my head, and we exchange a big hug. The photo crew takes my picture with my medal wrapped around my neck, and an ear to ear smile. Taking my shoes off is a well deserved treat, but I'm afraid of what I'll see when I do. One of my toe nails is completely black, and the blisters on my big toes are the size of grapes. Literally, grapes. They're big enough that I treat myself to a trip to the medical tent, where I'm told that I definitely deserve an award for the biggest blisters. Another volunteer in the med tent comes around to register me for treatment. After getting my name, she asks a series of standard procedure questions. "Are you tired?" The look I give her makes her respond "Yea. I know...we have to ask these kinds of questions..." She continues "Are you sore?" The look I continue to give her makes her stop asking me questions. Then, just as I hobble towards the exit of the athlete only area, my eye catches a woman standing right there by herself. After doing a double take, I say "Are you who I think you are???" and she smiles and gives me a big hug. She is indeed the myth, the legend, Sister Madonna Buder, the Iron Nun. She is a household name in the triathlon community, a woman who at age 82 is still competing in Ironman races.
There are books written about her, I've seen her on TV several times, and in real life she's just as sweet. I take this opportunity to tell her what an inspiration she is, and get my picture taken with her. This is definitely one of the highlights of the whole experience.
I wish that I had waited until 14 hours to finish, because they blast U2's "Where the streets have no name" while people cross theat glorious line and have their dreams come true. If I had it in me to stand up any more and watch the finish for literally 3 more minutes, I would have seen my friend Nola from Canada cross the line. We met at the pre race dinner banquet and saw eachother several times during the race. When I saw official race photos of each athlete online, it was hard not to notice that she had a huge smile in every single picture. I asked her later how she could possibly smile so much during that much pain and she responded: "Because when you smile during an Ironman, you don't feel the pain as much!" Good advice for next time around.
This is a funny sport. I remember wanting that run to be over almost as badly as I wanted Transformers to be over when I saw it in the theatre. And yet, the next day I can't wait to sign up for another one. A sign that someone had staked into the ground on the course simply said "Be thankful." I am thankful. Thankful to the places this sport takes me, the lessons it teaches me, and the opportunities it gives me. Go do an Ironman, and you'll know what I mean.
And with that, I leave you with my favorite spectator sign of the day.
The closer I get to Idaho on my pre-race road trip from the deep south, the more Coeur d' Alene participants I see around me. It's like I can smell the excess of iron in their blood. Either that or it's the clean shaven legs on all the men. It's an odd feeling to be around so many Ironmen and women. Normally I'm all by myself in this. Most people don't even know what an Ironman really is, and outside of an actual event, I've really only met a very small handful of people who have ever done one. Everywhere I go in Coeur d' Alene I'm surrounded by them, and it feels strange to look at them and think "All these people are actually as nuts as me." It's a unique community. Ironmen know what it means when a voice over the loudspeaker announces that "strippers will be available for all the athletes" and whether or not it will be a "booty legal swim." They are concerned with things like whey vs. soy protein, and the aerodynamic difference between a regular bike helmet and one shaped like a tear drop. They are anxious, for whatever reason, to jump into 59 degree water at 7am while everyone else is bundled up in winter jackets, watching them brutally crawl all over eachother. They possess a unique grit that comes tightly wrapped in lycra spandex. I'm one of these people.
Before I jump in for a practice swim a few days before the race, I ask a guy who just came out how the water felt. "It's not that bad. I mean, unless you're coming from the south or something.." Well crap, I just came here from Louisiana. The "not that bad" water he's talking about is 54 degrees at the time, and while everyone says "yea but you're wearing a wetsuit", a wetsuit is about as good as a bullet proof vest in a SWAT team shootout. There's still a whole lot of nothin covering your face. The first 5 minutes it feels like someone is repeatedly whipping you in the face with a 2x4, but after that it goes numb, along with your hands and feet, so it actually isn't quite so bad. My sister actually had it in her to swim out to the first buoy and back without a wetsuit, a feat that if you ask me makes her deserving of a finisher's medal.
Another 10 months of training has prepared me yet again for the longest and toughest single day endurance event there is. At the butt crack of dawn, I put on my wetsuit along with 2800 other sea lion looking crazy people, after I visit the potty several times of course. As we stand there waiting like a bunch of meat ready to be thrown in the grinder, different people have different ways of dealing with the intense psycological pressure. Some joke around while others have a very serious and focused look on their faces. One poor woman has volunteers on all sides of her, hastily wrapping her rear end with duct tape. Apparently her wetsuit had torn when she was putting it on. You can plan and prepare so much for this race, and then you can still end up with a bunch of strangers duct taping your ass.
About 2 minutes to go, and I work my way through the mass of neoprene sea lions to a spot about 3 rows back from the water's edge. Through my ear plugs and double layered swim cap, I can hear Mike Reilly, the voice of the Ironman, getting ready to send us off.
I hear the cannon, and enter the mayhem that is an Ironman swim start. This time, 2800 people are cut loose like wild dogs chasing a rabbit. This is expected, but normally it thins out. for me, in this race, it never does. The following hour and 7 minutes is something I call defensive swimming. If you're farmiliar with the old Mortal Kombat Nintendo game, it's like when all you can do is hold the block button while your older brother mercilessly beats the piss out of you, then laughs as if you're actually enjoying it as much as he is. People are on top of me, people are underneath me. They claw at my legs, punch me in the head, and kick me in the eyes. I can feel my brain jiggle every time I take a beat down. Occasionally, I can actually hear people scream and curse obscenities underwater. Call me a softy, but I'm one of the courteous people that eases up a bit on my kick if I can feel a bunch of people within striking distance of my heels. Some people that I come up behind continue to kick so hard that it feels like I'm being sucked into a boat propellor. I would wear one of those boxing mouth guards if it was possible to breathe with one. After 1 lap the winds pick up and we're met with a current and nasty chop that slaps us around just to play games with us. I never know if I'll get a good breath of air with each rotation or a mouthful of water.
2.4 miles later, I'm on the beach making my way up to the even more chaotic area of volunteers stripping people of their wetsuits. It's all a blur, but I remember them pushing me on the ground, and I laid there in a complete daze looking up at the sky while 3 people give my wetsuit one strong pull, and it comes off the way that a table cloth gets yanked away leaving all the dishes behind. I think about how hard it will be to stand up, but by the time I'm half way through that consideration, they have already hoisted my carcass up, and I'm on my feet. What service!
Watching me try to put on a tight jersey over my wet skin with cold numb hands must have been like watching a small animal get tortured. It takes many attempts to get dressed while I sit there in the transition tent, but after several hours (in my mind at least) I'm ready to hop on the bike. The cool part about this course is how the transition, and surrounding area are all downtown on closed off streets. Hundreds of thousands (again, in my mind) of spectators line both sides of us as we whiz by. No, that wasn't a pee joke, not just yet..
As we go up one of the hills, we're treated to a band of bag pipers, then a stage of kids "dancing" for us. It's chilly and sprinkling, so I'm glad I put on my arm warmers. After 14 miles we pass through downtown again. The streets are densely packed with people, so I start working the crowd and they all go wild, including my loving family who have completely gone overboard with enormous signs.
Speaking of signs, this race had the absolute best collection of hilarious motivational signs. Here are some of my favorite:
We exit town on our bikes and as I get closer to the first major hill I can see the multicolored marching line of triathlete ants, slowly making their way up into the sky. After blazing through town and hearing the thunderous roar of wind in my helmet, I sit up and slowly trudge my way upward with everyone else. Near the aid stations, there are bands set up on the side of the highway, rocking out for us. I feel like I'm on fire, in a good way! For once I'm passing people on the bike. One of the best triathletes in the world, Chris Lieto, is competing in this race and I keep wondering when he'll pass me for his second lap. On an uphill headed back into town though, I come up on a guy who looks like he's in pain, and then I see his number: "2-Lieto". In awe, I pass him, not sure what to say because he's obviously having a bad race that he probably won't finish, but I say "Nice job Chris" and give him a smile. Thankfully, he didn't take my comment as sarcastic, and after looking at me with a "who the hell are you?" expression, he smiled back and told me "Nice job" too.
I'm using all new gear this time. New wetsuit, bike, clothes, and a sweet new aero helmet. It's super slick and I feel like a knife cutting through "I can't believe it's not butter". At high enough speeds, it actually acts like that helmet from the movie "The Rocketeer", which had a rudder on the back so that what's his name could steer when flying around with his jetpack. At 38 mph on a downhill, I turn my head to see if I can pass someone, and as I do I can feel my entire body shift to the side. With great power comes great responsibility. A runaway water bottle rolls down the hill and I have to slam on the brakes and swerve out of the way to avoid a wreck. On the second lap, headwinds pick up, and it seems like it takes forever to get to the turnaround. As much as I love my beautiful yellow bike, 112 miles is enough for me to want to get off of it. As I get to the dismount area, the volunteers grab my bike, I unclip from the pedals and as I throw my leg up over the bottles on the rear rack I get an excrutiating pain through my quad, like I just got stabbed. With that welcome start to my marathon, I head into the transition tent to switch shoes and stretch a little. Without my even asking, a volunteer is already helping to push my back and hips down to stretch out my IT bands. As he helps me up, I tell him he's my guardian angel and I wobble out to even more volunteers who slather sun screen all over me. This whole thing is like the machine from Wallace and Grommit that gets him dressed and makes his breakfast.
2 out of 3 done, now all I have to do is go for a little jog. At least that's what the lady passing me says. Mile 2, mile 3. The course takes us through a lake front neighborhood where people sit in their lawn chairs with garden hoses offering to spray us. Mile 4. My stomach feels empty but when I try to put any nutrition in, a big set of pliers grabs my guts and twists them like a dentist pulling out a tooth. Still, I try to force down whatever I can, and count my calories along the way. Mile 5 starts a long up hill. One of the aid stations is themed like Bourbon street in New Orleans. Everyone's dressed in purple with mardi gras beads, they play jazz music, and murals line the sides that look like New Orleans streets. When I tell them I just came from Louisiana, they all light up and cheer. After that is an odd Sponge Bob Square Pants themed aid station. The sun is finally out and lightly cooking us. All around me, people are walking, and as much as I don't want to, I have to do a couple short walks. My knee hurts, my hips hurt, I breathe heavily, and my feet weigh a thousand pounds. Hours go by.
Mile 12, 13.
We go back into town, make the turnaround, and start it all over again. At mile 15 I realize that if I can hold a slow running pace, I can beat 13 hours. 17, 18, it seems more and more far fetched that I'll be able to keep up any running pace for the remainder of the marathon. My entire body is screaming in pain. I dump water over my head, and do what I can to keep water in my belly. I pass people that are stopped, hands on their knees, and blowing gallons of puke out like old faithful.
Mile 22.
I have to walk more and more, and when I try to start back up running again, pain shoots through my body and my face shows it. My quadriceps are wrapped with barbed wire and broken glass. When I see the mile 23 sign, I think back to how impossibly hard my first cross country 5k seemed in highschool. Those 3 miles were a rollercoaster of pain, and now I'm completely relieved that I only have 3 miles remaining in this 140.6 mile long journey. A girl runs along side me and asks what the race time is. When I tell her, we both decide that we can break 13 hours, and start picking up the pace.
Mile 25.
I see the split in the road where 2nd lappers turn right, and finishers turn left. At the last turn, people on the side promise me just 7 blocks of downhill until I'm all done. This is 7 blocks of pure heaven where your feet don't even touch the ground. The crowds scream. I make them scream even louder by motioning for them to go wild. It's so fun to be able to get that many people cheering, it feels like you're a rock star. I learned that trick in Ironman Switzerland. A guy in front of me on the bike motioned to the crowd to make some noise, and the people went ape. I think that spectators love to get some attention back, and it's not always easy to give it back to them. On the run, after 138 miles, a woman on the side graciously said to the runner in front of me "You're inspiring me so much right now!" The runner never responded, and never even looked at her. Trust me, it's not disrespect, it's a level of exhaustion that makes you unable to do much of anything other than trot forward. At mile 135, I was behind 2 women that were reduced to a walk. A spectator tried to get them pumped by telling them to start running again, and the women snapped at her, saying in a pretty rough tone that they needed a moment to recompose themselves, and would soon run again. This also isn't something to be taken the wrong way, it's just a huge sense of frustration to be humbled to a walk when your legs just aren't firing anymore.
3 blocks left. I'm sprinting. This is amazing considering just a minute ago my legs felt like they weren't even connected to my body any more. I can see the finish, my hands are in the air, and Mike Reilly calls out my name. At 12:55:32 on the clock, I become a 2 time Ironman. A volunteer walks me forward, puts a medal over my head, and we exchange a big hug. The photo crew takes my picture with my medal wrapped around my neck, and an ear to ear smile. Taking my shoes off is a well deserved treat, but I'm afraid of what I'll see when I do. One of my toe nails is completely black, and the blisters on my big toes are the size of grapes. Literally, grapes. They're big enough that I treat myself to a trip to the medical tent, where I'm told that I definitely deserve an award for the biggest blisters. Another volunteer in the med tent comes around to register me for treatment. After getting my name, she asks a series of standard procedure questions. "Are you tired?" The look I give her makes her respond "Yea. I know...we have to ask these kinds of questions..." She continues "Are you sore?" The look I continue to give her makes her stop asking me questions. Then, just as I hobble towards the exit of the athlete only area, my eye catches a woman standing right there by herself. After doing a double take, I say "Are you who I think you are???" and she smiles and gives me a big hug. She is indeed the myth, the legend, Sister Madonna Buder, the Iron Nun. She is a household name in the triathlon community, a woman who at age 82 is still competing in Ironman races.
There are books written about her, I've seen her on TV several times, and in real life she's just as sweet. I take this opportunity to tell her what an inspiration she is, and get my picture taken with her. This is definitely one of the highlights of the whole experience.
I wish that I had waited until 14 hours to finish, because they blast U2's "Where the streets have no name" while people cross theat glorious line and have their dreams come true. If I had it in me to stand up any more and watch the finish for literally 3 more minutes, I would have seen my friend Nola from Canada cross the line. We met at the pre race dinner banquet and saw eachother several times during the race. When I saw official race photos of each athlete online, it was hard not to notice that she had a huge smile in every single picture. I asked her later how she could possibly smile so much during that much pain and she responded: "Because when you smile during an Ironman, you don't feel the pain as much!" Good advice for next time around.
This is a funny sport. I remember wanting that run to be over almost as badly as I wanted Transformers to be over when I saw it in the theatre. And yet, the next day I can't wait to sign up for another one. A sign that someone had staked into the ground on the course simply said "Be thankful." I am thankful. Thankful to the places this sport takes me, the lessons it teaches me, and the opportunities it gives me. Go do an Ironman, and you'll know what I mean.
And with that, I leave you with my favorite spectator sign of the day.
