Holy Shit They Just Let Me Into Kona!

That’s exactly what it felt like when I read the e-mail after class, me as Chuck and running up and down the street in Santa Monica, looking for someone who would understand exactly what it meant - to be allowed to race in Kona - to get ripped by the course I’ve seen rip through contenders as far back as I can remember, sitting on a couch and watching the race unfold on some calm, lazy December day, helplessly crying and crying because I couldn’t take it, because I was so inspired by it - the sight of bodies crumbling and failing and enduring, utter destruction and triumph of the human spirit. It was always so beautiful to me. Now I’m going there, to participate in it. It’s breaking me now, just typing this…

I think it’s important to say this on paper — even though I’m not going to Kona on a qualification (though I’m not ruling that out in St. George May 9th), at some point in the last year, I went to bed thinking that only in my wildest dreams would I be able to compete in both Boston and Kona in the same year, THIS year. Only in my wildest dreams. And now here we ar

Chris McCormack...

I feel full, bursting even. I’m ready to give. Last night, I drove down to Redondo to listen to Chris McCormack recount what it’s like to be the champ he is - maybe the greatest triathlete ever, fresh off his second (remarkable) Kona win. There was a moment I was scanning the crowd, thinking about what people there were going to take for themselves, away from him and the night. I started thinking about what I was going to take away…

Macca is a true champ, made and then built and built. Off the course, he’s nothing but love, nothing but giving, nothing but heart. On it, when that gun fires, if you’re out there to take what he believes is rightfully his, he becomes something else…the kind of guy who would rip out your throat and then drag you to your children, make you watch as he force-fed it to them. Anything to win — because it’s what he sacrifices for, because it’s what he wakes up day after day to suffer and bleed for, because he knows that giving anything less than everything would be disrespectful to himself and the gift of a life. Because he is a true champ.

I am ready to race. I am full. I stole so much. Macca, you’re my hero. I’ll be chasing you forever, mate.

An Open Letter To My Body...

Darling,

Welcome home, welcome home. I am going to speak openly because I know that’s what you both respect and deserve. I understand more than you know. There are blisters and splits on your knuckles, in your palms and on your feet. Your toenails are black – 2 of them. Your left calf is miserable and you haven’t been able to run right since the sixth day of Tokyo. You have traveled the globe, bled across it for the past 4 months. You have been bleeding forever. I know. I understand. You deserve rest, a break, solace. I know. I know. That’s sort of why I’m here. We need to talk…

In the Philippines, something new happened. 70.3 happened, a half Ironman. We stayed in that sun, near 100 degrees and battled for longer than we’ve ever battled before. When it was over, I wanted more. When it was over, I wanted to get out there the next day and do it again, again and again. Fight more. Bleed more. Grow more. Give more. Suffer more. So did you. Don’t forget, I know you too.

Now we’re back in California. Now we’re done slamming our feet across Asia. There’s beautiful and easy access to everything we could ever desire. The rabid dogs are gone…the heat…the kidnapping eyes…broken pedaled and rusted bikes from the 1970’s…posters of Andre Agassi when he had long hair. It’s all gone now. Everything we need is here. Everything we did and everything we saw over these last 4 months has raised us up. I want to draw on it, use it to pick a fight – the biggest one of them all. I want to see what we’re made of, need to see what we’re made of. Both of us.

In 9 weeks, we’re flying to Cozumel. In 9 weeks, on a Sunday, we’re going to wake up to become Ironmen. And I understand what you’re thinking, what you always think for the sake of self-preservation, that Cozumel should be enough. It should. But it’s not. You understand me too. Certainly you saw coming what’s now coming…

Next October, there is a race that happens on an island called Kona, in a state called Hawaii. It may be the world’s toughest. Titans travel from far and wide to line up self-destruction. Don’t play dumb – the Kona fire has been burning for a while now. To get to there, something special needs to happen. There is no disputing that. If what I am about to say seems disregarding, I can offer no apology. You need to ditch this nagging pain and allow me to deliver us. You need to allow my fight every day for the next 7 weeks, and you need to allow it harder than you have ever allowed it before. You need to allow me to break us harder than we’ve ever broken and then come out the next day and break again. You need to simply let go and survive. Be honest with me. Believe me when I say I’ll listen to you, and that I will take care of us. Understand that I aim to chase a beauty beyond capable description, and that great sacrifices must be made. Understand.

To get into Kona, the rules are simple. We have to line up in Cozumel and then finish first, second or third in the men’s 25-29 age group. We don’t stand a chance unless we stand together. I committed long ago. You did too, you just won't admit it. Please consider this - my beg, my plea. Know that I both love you and despise your hesitation, that I am doing this for both of us. Be wicked now, rest is for the defeated…