On course.

I promised my good pal and training partner Hardcore Mike that I would spend some time with him during the second of three laps of the Ironman Arizona run course. As things tend to go at these events, it is hard to be in the right spot at the right time and find people. As it happened, I walked up to some friends and was told Mike was just two minutes up the course. What happened next fulfilled a reoccurring dream.

I cinched my pack belt and took off like a bolt from the sky. I was already dressed the part of an Ironman contestant and received no complaints as I entered the course looking the part of competitor. The only clue to my true identity was the pace I was setting in a already exhausted field of runners. I had no reason for this sprint except to see my friend as quickly as possible as the sun was soon setting.

I suppose in hind site, my speed was also the physical expression of joy I feel doing something I love bottled up since my unfinished race last year. Knowing that for all intents and purposes I will never run as a competitor on an Ironman course again, I cherished every crunching footfall, every spectators accolade, the sheer thrill of freedom that comes from running. And I ran.

At my pace I should have caught up to Mike within a mile, certainly before hitting the overpass triathletes must cross over Tempe Town lake. I ran three times that distance along the course and did not see my friend. Is it possible his pace was that good? Anything is possible. I continued to run another mile, seeking jerseys of his color and running that person to the ground until I knew it was not him. It was never him.

I come to a spot that is the neck of a loop. Do I run the loop and chase down my friend, still possibly, beyond rational thought ahead of me? Or do I play it safe and wait here? If I passed him to this point he would run up on me. If he was ahead he would come back this way. There was no hesitation, on I ran.

As a 'bandit' (someone on the course who did not pay) I kept far away from provided aid, I took no water, I took no food. I did take the verbal support. Oh, it felt so good to get this praise. "Good Pace!" "Looking good!" and so much more. To me it all sounded the same, "Welcome back. We missed you. We love you."

I charged up the lone hill of the run, a place called Curry Rd, maybe he is on this stretch. And I became in tune with the pangs the athletes possibly felt as I ran by. They all must think I am one of them, but my pace is far to fresh for the effort this crowd has put out today. I know if someone passed me so completely at this point in my race, I would be disheartened. I would inwardly begin to doubt my ability. So I slowed down as a token of unspoken honor.

I ran all the way back through the course looking for my friend. I never found the actual one, Mike, but I reconnected with the mental and emotional one in my head. I miss racing so much, not because I am fast or crush my peers, but because its a freedom. Its the power of purpose, vision and direction over Common Man instincts to be decadent, lazy or live a uninspired life. Because of this knowing, I touched a unanticipated point in my recovery.

I will race again. I know it. I will earn the congratulatory statements of the volunteers and sip from watered down Gatorade they hand out in pinched Dixie cups, a chalice to champions if their ever was one. It felt wonderful. I felt alive. I am more hopeful and properly committed to a new life in racing.

It's not enough to exist, I want to live.