[author’s note–I am going to host my prose blog here on poetprojects.com. It is available via Medium and Substack as well. I’m going to see which seems to work better for me. Probably just doing the blog here. We’ll see! This blog is prose, which is obvious, and counter to the all poetry all the time nature of this site. Oh well!]

I’m on my way to my son Jack’s triathlon near the UP in Michigan. It’s dark outside. The world is full of trees. I am reminded of hiking with my son Oliver in Virginia on the Appalachian Trail, when we would wake up at five to get a start on the day in the dark and cool of the morning.

Reminded also because in both these cases, my children are taking on bucket-list level physical challenges. 

The cool of the morning is making my knees hurt. And my bald head. I want to be young again.

This triathlon makes me want to do a triathlon. There are plenty of adults in this race that appear to be relatively old (RO), as I am. Perhaps it’s just a matter of will.

As in, will I actually run a triathlon?

Actually, I have. Jack and I did one north of Pittsburgh back in April. Mine a sprint, his an olympic distance.

Today’s is a half-Ironman. Much more hard-core. 

I think that’s what I really want, at least out of this potential personal project, for the perception of me in the world to be, “Wow, that RO dude is hard-core.”

For me, hard-core is more the feeling of success I would gain. Such success sits in your core, content, assured that I’m not yet BRO (beyond relatively old), aka old.

I don’t really mind becoming old. It’s what we all do. Hopefully. 

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We are right next to the transition area. Fifteen hundred bikes all hanging off metal rails, sacks and buckets of gear beside them – water bottles, gel packs, sock caps (it is 55 degrees), wetsuits, running shoes. 

The water temperature is 61 degrees, up from the 58 they predicted. So. Cold. 

Water is the reason I fear the triathlon. 

I must admit to a weakness of mine—I can’t keep my face in the water while swimming in a lake anymore. 

When I was five, I also had this problem, with all types of water. My father tricked me into overcoming this fear with the promise of getting a monkey. A live monkey. That’s a blog entry for the ages. I promise to write that one soon.

A monkey is not going to work anymore. Not after one peed on my grandma. Not after I’ve hear the horror stories of the non-curious real monkeys, real meaning all the monkeys. They are apparently more inclined to throw poop, bite and masturbate than find clues and solve mysteries. 

In my twenties I was a certified water safety instructor. I was a lifeguard. I was even the waterfront director for my camp in Vermont. I could dive twenty feet underwater and sit on the bottom for a minute without any caution. 

Now, not so much. 

Fear is curious, unlike real monkeys. There is no reasoning with it. There is no negotiation, no promise of primates that can truly bypass terror. 

You don’t survive ax murderers with thoughts of a milkshake. 

So, I will need to inch my way back. I’m inspired to do so, sitting here next to these brave humans. 

I could once achieve a deep calm with meditation, a deep calm that encouraged me to have a cavity filled without Novocain, to survive my first year of teaching. 

On the other hand, I also used to hide under my bed so that I didn’t have to go to swimming lessons.

So, there is a project here.  

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Jack is out of the water and over 10 miles into the 56 mile bike. 

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Now he is over 15 miles into the bike. We have chairs on the side of the road, as people do for parades. No one has thrown candy at us. This is not a parade.

Cow bells, claps, and shouts of encouragement are also along the side of the road. It is a cold, windy 59 degrees right now at 9:48 am. Bikes are sweeping past us, fast and slow.

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We are sitting by the water now, alongside the running route, eating goldfish and pretzels, getting warmed by the sun. We have a great view of sailboats, seagulls, and port-a-potties. 

I am multiple inches closer to signing up for a triathlon. Ironman’s official slogan is “Anything is possible”. 

I’m not sure that is true. Actually, I am sure that is not true.

It’s true enough though—it is possible for me to do a half-Ironman. There is a forecasted path. 

Maybe a hurricane tracker could tell me. Put my metadata in and voila, the possibility exists. It might just be one spaghetti strand heading toward landfall, but it’s saying there’s a chance.

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Jack is now running.

This is just a beautiful spot. You can see the runners on the other side of the lake at their turnaround point. The run is a series of loops on the same course.

Some of our lives have turnarounds. We follow paths and then change our minds. Circumstances force us to go back. We don’t always have choices, but we have some.

This is a turnaround for me. I have started writing again. I am creating again. 

What was at my back is now in front of me.

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The finish of the triathlon was as much a party as the end of a sporting event. 

Music. Balloons. Signs. Banners. Cheering and clapping.

The Ironman corporation brought three trailer trucks of equipment with them, including a long red(?) carpet and an inflatable finish line and a beautiful display board that had everyone’s finishing time as they crossed. 

The announcer declared as each triathlete approached, “Here comes another winner!”

Each runner gets a medal, a t-shirt, and a hat right after they cross the line. 

I know that our culture tilts a bit over participation trophies, about calling everyone a winner. 

It’s all a matter of perspective. While we think that interpersonal competition is the focus, that to win someone must lose, that we are lining people up in order of ability, or height, or weight, or IQ, or hair color and we must get that right, then, maybe, we only need one trophy. 

I’m quite content to know, today, that those that swim 1.1 miles, bike 56 miles, then run 13.1 miles are going to get a medal, a hat, and a shirt. I also saw someone with two bananas. I’m content with that as well.

Watching Jack finish the race and go through the slow process of recovering was even more inspirational that the race itself. 

Taking on challenges, or large-scale projects, or bucket-list goals is not simply about accomplishing them, about saying “I did that”. 

So much is sacrificed—temporally, physically, mentally.

Such events are transformational rewards that alter so many parts of who we are and who we will become.

These events also change that person we remember being. That person that alternately guilts us for perceived failures and makes us proud for perceived victories. 

I aim to tilt that scale for myself, weight it toward victory. 

And I will seek to live in the moment as well, the deep calm that will help me put my face in the water again. 

And I might get a monkey.