I can remember when I was first mentored in this grand and jovial endeavor of endurance sport. I ran at random. Vomiting at the end of the street. Spitting. Hands on tired knees. Trying to look up. Straighten my abdomen, and resurrect myself from the primal belly-breathing that ensures an asthmatic survival.

Then I’d go home. Eat. Sleep. Go To School. Eat Dinner. And stretch in the front hall. And resolve.






“Here we go again”

One house farther

I can remember running my first 2.6 miler. My first 5 miler. My first 7 miler. Then running as long as I could freshmen year in college, in Vermont, on an unseasonably warm April 19, because my best friend growing up was running her first Boston Marathon.

Then I ran for two hours, and slept for 4 hours thereafter that summer.

I kept running. Ran Boston. Then tried to make gentle the collegiate life, and tame the savageness of what would become Triathlon.



If God invented the marathon to prevent man from doing anything more stupid, then triathlon caught him completely off-guard.

I learned what a cadence was. A derailleur. How speed-play was not just manifest in runner-speak, but had a valid meaning in multi-sport also.

There was a distinct feeling in the sport of multi-sport of total commitment. Total fitness. And total depletion.

The race of 9/9 was the hardest physical thing I have ever done. But after that ended, and I began training again, I saw the sport through a renewed sense of realism.


Today, I saw two of my best friends, get on a road bike, and just ride the countryside with me.




We are all fierce competitors, and even fiercer of friends. We test our limits, while ensuring the health of one another in the process. We never take no for an excuse, but we excuse our suffering when we know we are in danger.

It was a training ride for myself. But it wasn’t about me. It was about hearing their recollections after. It was hearing the thrill and joy in their voices. It was laughing in the wind as the sun set, as we gasped for air, and the heavy fishing trucks of Cape Ann flew by us. We were as Gods.

We rode by the manifestation of cross country heaven - Appleton farms. We time trialed as if we were fresh out of school, sprinting to the candy store.

I really can’t begin to describe what it means to me. Cycling is a lonely sport. As is running. And swimming. 99% of the year, I’m out there alone. With my thoughts. My body. My senses. There is pride in that, even arrogance. But there is also truth.

Having someone abetting me, breathing with me, swimming in the same sea of lactic acid as I, re-unites us in an uncommon bond. It elicits a moment in time that occurs only in the noble pursuit of promise and happiness..

I say this not because its coy. I say its because its true. Because when you look at me when I’m doing this, you can see, very plainly, that I’m experiencing a mild state of euphoria. Absent these challenges, these memories, and these short hours of ecstasy, I know nothing better.





This is Real Triathlon.