Bang! There’s the gun and I’m climbing over the floating yellow pipe at 7:30 a.m. on a Sunday morning in June along with several hundred other nuts. My heart rate immediately doubles in response to the surge of adrenaline in my veins. I immediately start hammering in an effort to get some distance from the other swimmers. But by the quarter mile mark, I have over-revved and am hyperventilating. The smooth stroke I tried to learn in swim class has degenerated into survival breaststroke. I’m slowing down and the other swimmers are climbing over me. I get kicked in the head several times and I can’t see through my fogged goggles. Somehow, I make it to the turnaround boat and start back to shore. I’m forcing myself to even my stroke and breathing out. Now, it’s a question of how long can I sustain it. Finally, I reach the beach. My legs are weak and I’m exhausted. I hit the lap time on my iron-man watch and try to force myself to run up the hill to the bike.

I get to my bike and the parking lot looks empty, like everyone’s already gone. I sit down and try to put on my shoes and socks and it seems like it’s taking forever. I try not to forget anything, race number, sunglasses, helmet, powerbars. I jump on the bike and roll out of the parking lot. Now it’s hammer time.

People wonder why I do things like this. I believe there are two reasons: I like to call one VO2 max addiction. There is a certain fitness level that can only be reached once or twice a year (maybe only once or twice a lifetime). The only way it is attained is by crushing yourself with monumental physical exertion at every given opportunity for an extended period of time. When you get to this point (age and injury and illness permitting), your heart becomes like a V8 engine. You don’t measure your heart rate in beats per minute, but rather in barrel horsepower. At 70% of max, you’re at idle. Wide open, your heart sings.

The other reason I do it is if you’re going to be dumb, you’ve got to be tough.

I’m coming down the hill from the dam at full throttle, cranking it, bent over the aero bars, with no thought to the brakes. I hope the cops stop the traffic at the next intersection. No drafting is allowed, so it’s a matter of how long can I stay bent over and out of the wind. I pass riders like they are standing still. I try not to say anything to irritate them that would make them accelerate. However, I do let out a few whoohoos.

After 15 miles, I’ve reached the turnaround point on the bike. The little kid handing out bottles of water drops mine before I can grab it. I’m tempted to go back and kill him. But, I keep going. This is where all those times riding with Bill and Dawn and Kelvin and Bruce and Steve and Tom Baker until my lungs bled pays off. I end up passing over a hundred people.

The fatigue sets in as I pull into the transition area. I jump off the bike and start the 6.2-mile run. My legs are like noodles from the bike ride and are not back to normal for about a mile. The day has turned out to be very hot and sticky. All I’m thinking about is just trying to keep it together until the finish line. Two miles down, three. I’m toast, I’m completely out of gas, I’m becoming unglued. I walk through the water areas on the fourth and fifth miles. I am thinking to myself that I am never going to do this again, that I am too old for this. On the sixth mile, another runner encourages me to run it through to the finish. My head is spinning but I start running again. Finally there is the corner and the spectators and the finish line. I pass through and walk over to a shade tree and lay face down in the mud for about an hour.

A funny thing happens over time, you forget the pain. In your mind, events go into legendary status. You say to yourself, "Man, I was on fire that race, I was out of control."

Guess what, it’s nearly June again.