Ironman, I’m Not

All I ever did as a kid was play outdoor games. Almost any game would do. Preferably a sport that included a ball. There, too, almost any size and shape of ball would fit the bill. Give me a ball, a couple of friends and our afternoon was set. Weather was a non-issue. Hell, a little rain was, at times, the makings of a memorable day. As kids, the idea of hurting yourself never entered your mind so play on, my friend, play on.

My buds and I would tell each other the day before as to what, when and where we’d be playing. There was no calling on the phone or sending text messages back then. It was all word of mouth and the results were typically suitable. The gang showed up.

If you could peer into the way-back machine we’d look phenomenal. A cluster of finely tuned young men in ragged gym wear. Torn jeans or grass-stained tough corduroy pants worked. Maybe some stretched out sweat pants but those were rare. Dingy sweatshirts maybe. Light gray T-shirts (originally white) were the norm, but if you were lucky enough to have a faux jersey, you wore it with pride. With gear adorned, the game was to begin. Logos be damned.

We’d run, tackle, jump, fall, dodge, swing, shoot and run some more. The amount of sweat that left our bodies could fill a small skiff. We rarely tired. The ultimate reason for leaving the park was that the kid with the ball had to leave. Then, we’d do it all over again the following day. Being a kid was the best. We all thought we were supreme athletes with professional aspirations before us. There was little doubt.

A few months back, my wife and I took a day trip to our state capital city of Madison Wisconsin. We used to make this same jaunt more frequently but it had been some time since we headed into downtown. The roads were familiar but the scenery had changed. New buildings and landscaping were before us. The suburban areas were replaced by the more urban as we approached the capital square. Our reason for the drive was to attend a benefit concert at The Majestic Theater in the early evening which included a high school chum. Upon arrival, we ran across numerous closed streets. “What?” Again, we turned a corner and another closed thoroughfare. Tina and I looked at each other and, at precisely the same time we uttered, “apparently there’s something going on down here.” Detectives we are not. Fortunately we located a parking ramp adjacent to our destination so that worry was subsided. Event parking signs were plastered all over the area which made the price to park that much more enjoyable (har har) but again, we were close to where we intended to be.

After we deposited our vehicle inside the concrete structure and hitting my noggin as I attempted to get out, we maneuvered the couple of blocks towards the throngs of spectators. Human masses had accumulated a stone’s throw from the Capital and temporary barriers were positioned  in the streets. Then we saw them. Sleek, sinewy bodies of both sexes running between the barriers which were all emblazoned with Wisconsin Ironman. Ah … the light went on. A massive competition of some of the finest athletes in America were going at it right before our eyes. I immediately felt out of shape.

I stumbled down a curb until we heard the blazing music and the low, bass filled sounds of an announcer bellowing out some statistics. Our curiosities were peaked so we continued towards the Master of Ceremonies. Held high above the crowd, and competitors, was the dude spouting good tidings down at the runners. As luck would have it, we ended up right in front of the finish line. Groups of people, all dressed alike in support of their loved one, were cheering all of the runners on. After every participant passed by the noise became louder and louder. The announcer, as every succeeding contestant made his/her approach upon the conclusion of their task, would broadcast their names and that, yes … they were an Ironman!

Chills ran up and down my spine each and every time the dude declared this. I was awestruck. I was winded. These athletes, after competing for ten straight hours, were still running. Some with tears in their eyes as the line came into view. The crowd noise would raise, the chills would pop out again and even I would cheer. An amazing feeling and sight to behold. I just couldn’t imagine being a part of anything close to this type of human achievement and suffering. Plus, I saw no corduroy.

Tina and I, after driving the 2+ hours from Green Bay (with a pop and a bag of chips), both knew that our next destination was onward towards State Street as hunger pangs smacked us in the face. State Street is a closed-to-traffic road with multiple  eateries, unique shops and unbelievable people watching. A stones throw from the UW campus gives the area a coolness factor not found in northern Wisconsin. Surprise. Oh, it was closed-to-traffic all right. It was used as a part of the marathon portion of the race. As an admirer of State Street for decades I wasn’t actually surprised by this but, yes, I was stunned in the moment. Once again our movements were hampered by another ten thousand on-lookers, cheering their family members on with banners, noise makers and multiple cameras. The scene was electric. Here’s the thing … I was still hungry. Were the restaurants open? Oh no. Can’t a regular guy catch a break? I craned my neck up and down the avenue and did notice that there were folks hanging out of many of the store fronts so I had to believe that some were, indeed, open for business. Tina inspected one side of the street as I did the other. An Italian place was piping out their countries favorite tunes so we dove toward the entry way. Packed. Waiting list. Oh right, there were ten thousand additional famished souls to my right and left. But still, none appeared to have eaten more than 900 calories in the previous three days. C’mon man! Eventually we each crammed a full-sized sub-sandwich deep in our gullet in the privacy of a large window viewing the participants. Did I feel guilty? Somewhat but the imminent sense of passing out took precedent.

After reviving and feeling a little more pep in my step I made it an immediate point to locate someone, anyone, that was not, or ever had been, a supreme athlete. A difficult task but my mission was on. I was initially hampered by massive internal combustion but I couldn’t allow that to discourage me. My intent was to jog but we walked up and down the thoroughfare and no one … no one appeared to be a ‘normal mid-westerner.’ You know, the potato eating, red meat chewing, beer guzzling kin-folk that have made Wisconsin famous. Hello? I know you’re out there because I see you every day in Green Bay. Will a 200 mile drive really do that? Surely I’ve read articles that Madison is one of healthiest places to live and their bike trails and paths are some of the finest but seriously, give me a semi-large dude swilling a brewski to make myself feel more comfortable. Enough of the human storks with four foot strides gliding along with surprising ease. I’m in desperate need of some gluttony.

We headed in the campus direction only to be headed off by multiple security and flashing red and blue lights. Another route change hampered our surveying of the masses. After managing to cross the street, the throngs seemed to ease slightly. Our pace became longer and yet the smell of sweat still took precedent. I peered in an occasional tavern but my attempt to locate a chubby student was going for naught. I’ll chalk it up to the summer, “school’s out” time of year. But still, no one?

The runners ran on.

A few blocks up we came across an out-door bistro style eatery and there, before my eyes, was one of us. A thirty-ish gal with a plate full of pasta and a side of garlic bread. The mug of ale cemented into her right hand made me feel at home. Her second side of fried cheese curds solidified the closeness I felt for this young lass. I’m not sure if she noticed what was happening directly in front of her and obviously couldn’t have cared less. Ahh, Madison was still in Wisconsin.

A few thousand more competitors cruised past us with such fluidity that it seemed as if they were floating. No pounding of the pavement with these freaks. No sir. True grace. Like seeing herds of antelope bounding and jumping in unison. A beautiful sight and impressive as hell.

As my thoughts reverted to my early years of playing games and my dreams of becoming a basketball, football or tennis player, I chuckled inside. My aspirations were thwarted earlier than I had wished but I persisted throughout my high school years. My love for sports and physical fitness has always been a consistent part of my lifestyle but to be a part of an IronMan scene was truly awe inspiring. As a youngster I could manage a game of touch football for an hour or two or a tennis match in 85 degree humidity but now? Seriously? These competitors were mostly in their 30’s if not older. I felt inadequate as a man. As an “athlete.”

We continued on our journey back to the finish line and applauded the true athletes. The thrill I recognized in their eyes was stimulating and thought-provoking. Could I muster up anywhere near this sort of determination? Naw, not even close. First my t-shirt and upper thigh high gym shorts wouldn’t do and my pre-game regimen of Mac ‘n’ Cheese would be scoffed at. Diet Coke? Doubt it.

Our trek to the benefit show was quick but I still managed to turn my ankle bounding off of a curb. Graceful. We entered the music hall, grabbed a drink and some more chips and I rested my foot on the chair in front of  me after I hiked up my ‘husky’ corduroys. Damn, it hurt.

IronMan?

No. Pussy.

This is where I now feel comfortable. Perhaps that’s all I ever did as a kid … listen to music on my AM radio. And not for 17+ hours.