The Hex is Ex

In the summer of 1987 Ronald Reagan was in Berlin challenging Mikhail Gorbachev to "tear down that wall." Axl Rose was on the airwaves singing "Welcome to the Jungle." And I . . . well I was training for my first-ever olympic-distance triathlon in suburban Chicago.

To say I was training is a bit of a stretch. I swam laps at a local pool, ran five miles three times a week, and, after buying a used Schwinn 10-speed, did some biking as well. As my wife sometimes tells me ignorance is a sin. And, on this day, my ignorance nearly cost me my life.

Race day began at Navy Pier in downtown Chicago. At 7:00 a.m., it was already 80 degrees. Chicago was wilting with Africa hot, sticky air blanketing the city. Determined to race, I gamely stroked through my first-ever open-water swim in choppy water, then furiously pedaled my inadequate bicycle up and down Lake Shore Drive, and, feeling totally exhausted, I attempted the run.

The heat was unrelenting. By 11 a.m. when I donned running shoes, the mercury had climbed well above 90 degrees. I struggled through the course. By the time I reached mile 6, fewer than 250 yards from the finish line, I collapsed in a heap, done in by a heat stroke and poor preparation.

As I regained consciousness in an ambulance that whisking me off to Northwestern Hospital, I remember praying, "Dear God, if you let me live, I'll never do anything this stupid again." And, true to my word, I hung up my running shoes and got rid of the Schwinn. My racing days were over.

Fast forward 23 years. It's 2010 and I'm trying to encourage my daughter with her own foray into endurance racing. She wanted to run triathlons--and I needed to get in shape. So I began training with her. And, when she started entering races, I started to think. Maybe that prayer in the ambulance was a little rash. Maybe by vowing "never to do anything that stupid again" I meant entering a triathlon without proper training. God would understand, wouldn't he?

In June 2010 I entered my first triathlon as a mature adult. This time I competed in the sprint triathlon category, which is half the distance of the race I failed to complete years earlier. And, this time, I finished the race. Like before, I struggled through the open-water swim, pedaled furiously on an antiquated bike (found another Schwinn 10-speed), and ran with pretty good speed. Flush with success, I entered a second sprint race in August, and finished that one as well.

As racing season ended, I started to think about "next year." Since I will celebrate my 50th birthday in October 2011, I knew that I would compete all season as a 50-year-old athlete. Rather than being the oldest guy in the 45-49 group, I would be the youngest guy competing against 50-54 year olds. And, I found a group of people to train with who were serious competitors. With year-round training, a better bike, and some expert coaching, I dreamed of triathlon glory. The 2011 race season couldn't come fast enough!

These dreams almost went unrealized. In January 2011 I needed a double hernia repair, brought on by aggressive swim training. My recovery took a while. I was out of the pool for two months. I was barely running, either. In March when I started swimming again, I hurt my shoulder. Dreams of my "breakout" season were slowly slipping away.

But, in April, I started training again. Very slowly at first, and then picked up speed. As June arrived, I decided I could sign up for a sprint triathlon. Though not in my best shape, I was better prepared than I had ever been for an endurance race. Further, for the first time I rented a wetsuit for the swim and borrowed a "real" bike. On race day my finish times improved significantly. I felt back in business.

However, finding follow-up races proved difficult. My mother's health was in rapid decline, and I got busy fixing up my rental property. Further, several weekends were spent packing up Amelia for her trip to Chile and with our preparations for a two-week trip to Madrid. All of a sudden summer was almost over and I had not entered any more races.

Then I noticed two September races: one in Tawas in northern Michigan, the other in Detroit on Belle Isle. After the death of my mother, I was ready for a personal "pick me up" and I believed a race was the right tonic. And, I wanted to run olympic distance (1.5 kilometer swim, 40 kilometer bike, 10 kilometer run). Opportunity knocked when Clarisa and I were at dinner with another married couple. In the course of the evening I shared with the husband, "Hey, there's a race I'm thinking about entering near your cottage." He responded, "Let's go together." I had a place to stay and a companion for the trip.

The race in Tawas, Michigan was billed as one of the most beautiful courses in the state. The swim was in Lake Huron. The bike ride largely took place in a national forest. And the run was a flat course along the lakefront. It sounded ideal.

Day of the race dawned sunny. Temperatures were perfect: 62 degrees at 7 a.m., with expected highs that day around 70. The water was 68 degrees, warm enough for me. I was finally going to finish an olympic distance race! I knew it.

The swim portion went well. In and out of the water in less than 30 minutes. I mounted my bike and headed for the woods. It was a gorgeous late summer day--and I truly enjoyed the ride. I turned the corner on the bike course at midpoint, and started the return to the transition area. Never before had I felt so strong this far in an endurance race. My mind started imagining my finish. Maybe today I could earn a spot on the podium with a top-three finish. Yet my dreams of glory quickly evaporated when I ran over a sharp rock . . . twice! Both the front and back tires of my borrowed Cannondale racer quickly went flat.

There I was by the side of the road--racers whizzing by me. I had a spare tube and air with me. But repair two flats? Impossible. My race was over. I telephoned my friend, who picked me up and we left. I avoided all post-race activities. I was not going to stand around listening to athletes talk about their races while I repeated my sad sack story of defeat. For penance I returned to my friend's cottage and pulled weeds. So much for my breakthrough triathlon season.

But there was one more race left on the calendar.

Friends and family encouraged me to try again. After all, I was in good shape and the race was close to home. So I signed up.

At first I doubted my decision. The weather that week turned wet and cold. Repairing the borrowed bike also proved a challenge. Immediately after the race I took the bike to a shop in northern Michigan and replaced the blown inner tubes. Back home on Tuesday, three days later, I took the bike out for a spin--only to hear, barely five minutes into my ride, a sickening sound yet again of a tire going flat. Fortunately I was close to a local bike shop--the same shop where my daughter bought the bike.

I walked in and they fixed my flat. "Hey I don't have any money with me. I'll be right back with some cash," I said to the guy who fixed the flat. "Yeah, likely story," he replied with a smile.

I quickly pedaled home, grabbed my wallet, and went back to the shop. After paying, I rolled out of the store and, within two blocks, "POP". Flat again. Same tire. My fourth flat in three days. The triathlon gods were frowning on me for sure!

My resolve began to flag. Maybe this was all a big mistake. Maybe God was warning me to give up the dream. No. Maybe instead of doubting I needed to listen to Kanye's words, "Now th-that don't kill me. Only makes me stronger." I would plod on.

Sunday morning dawned. Fifty-six degrees outside with clear skies. Not bad. I loaded up my gear and headed for Belle Isle. My "racing chip" (you wear for accurate timing) was handed to me by a friendly face, a classmate of my son Isaac's who was working as a volunteer. "Good luck Mr. Piecuch," she said with a broad smile. Another good sign. Next I went to body marking where they wrote my race number on my upper arm and left hand. On the left calf they wrote "T"--which indicated my race. On the left calf, the number 50. My racing age. I then donned my wetsuit, borrowed from a friend, and headed to the water front.

The olympic distance men were the first "wave" or group to enter the water. Five additional "waves" started in five-minute intervals behind us. The water was surprisingly warm. Sixty-seven degrees. Another good sign

We lined up at the starting gate, a horn blasted, and we were off.

Swimming in the Detroit River can be a challenge. Unlike the crystal clear waters of Lake Huron, the river is murky and sometimes has floating debris. The first leg stayed close to the beach and took swimmers to the Detroit Yacht Club. Along the way we swam through beds of weeds and water so shallow I actually touched bottom with my arms at one point.

At the Yacht Club, the course turned left and then left again as we swam back toward the starting point, this time in considerably deeper water that had a nice downstream current. The wetsuit adds to your bouyancy, and I felt like a cork bobbing along on a moving sidewalk. I dug in hard after making the final turn and swam to the beach. Trotting out of the water I felt OK considering I swallowed a little more of the river than I planned. "I hope I don't get sick from this," flashed through my brain. Fortunately at the first watering station I chugged some Gatorade, which washed the nasty taste away.

Pulled off the wetsuit pretty quickly, threw on my bike shoes, helmet and sun glasses and I was off. Four laps around the island. Not too bad at first, and then made my first big turn--and hit a stiff head wind. I downshifted--and fretted as serious bikers whizzed by on their five-thousand dollar Italian bicycles wearing aerodynamic helmets that looked like headgear worn by the Greek God Mercury. Actually my borrowed Cannondale was a huge step up from my Schwinn 10-speed. My goal was simply to hang on and not lose too much ground. And, I vowed as biker after biker passed me, "I'll see you again on the run."

After each lap my children Lonelli and Isaac screamed, "Way to go Piecuch!" They had cheered me out of the water as well. And now, going into the run, they encouraged me yet again. "You're almost done!" they shouted.

At first I took the run slowly--stretching out my hamstrings cramped after forty kilometers on the bike. The course was two laps of a five kilometer loop. While I didn't feel fast, I definitely felt strong enough to finish. Toward the end of the first loop I saw my friend Joe who loaned me the wetsuit. A two-time ironman and frequent training partner, he asked me, "How do you feel?" I said, "great." He said, "you look fresh." I smiled. As I passed, Joe urged, "Pick 'em off one at a time." Immediately I set my sights on a guy in black running shorts and picked up my pace.

Throughout the second lap I continued to press. And, as the last mile rolled around. I decided to go for broke. I rapidly passed a number of flagging athletes and I caught up with a woman who had sprinted ahead of me at the begining of the run. We had 100 yards to go and I had caught her. "Let's pick up the pace," I urged as we ran neck and neck. "I'll try," she said, but she couldn't and I blew past. Later I found she had ran the fastest 10 kilometer run among all the women athletes. And I ran faster!

I dashed across the finish line with Isaac matching me stride for stride. Both he and Lonelli were there to congratulate me. Isaac also telephoned my wife who expressed her enthusiastic praise as well. Twenty-four years later, I finally conquered the olympic distance triathlon. And I crossed the finish line, cheered on by family and friends, feeling elated.

Turns out, my times weren't too bad, either. My 48-minute run was the fastest I'd run 10 kilometers in twenty-five years. My 26-minute swim was a personal best as well. The bike . . . well let's just say I have lots of room from improvement. When the results were posted, I was stunned to see my name listed third among the men aged 50-54. It was a "podium finish." I earned a medal given during the awards ceremony. Not a bad way to end racing season.

Assuming God grants me long life, I expect I will remember 2011 as a difficult year. We've experienced four family deaths. My employment situation remains unsettled. And, family relationships have proven more challenging than usual. However, September 18 will stand out as a personal victory. Even old guys like me need encouragement to bolster our courage to face obstacles we see every day. But, whatever the obstacle, I feel extra pride that no matter the challenge, I face it knowing I'm the third-best triathlete in Michigan!

Troubled times better get moving! Kevin is in the house.