The Ironman - a sanctioned form of torture that consists of a 3.8-km swim, followed by a 180-km road bike ride, and then a 42-km run (marathon) to round things out. Why would anyone do such a race? I'm not sure, but I can remember a few years back when I decisively told myself that entering such a race was a sign of mental instability.

My downfall from a logical, less strenuous lifestyle began when I started cycling to SFU in 1997. Before I knew it, the lifestyle had hooked me and I started to get involved with mountain bike racing. The true point of no return was last year when I went to Ironman Canada in Penticton B.C. to cheer on some friends. I was impressed by the sportsmanship (the pros come out and cheer on the last competitors to finish), the wide array of ages (18 to 70), and the locals who cheered on every competitor as if they were the leaders. Before I knew what happened I was in the sign-up line for next year, not having made a complete decision until the cool $425 left my hand.

Now, I wasn't completely unaware of what I was doing. I knew I could ride the distance no problem and I have always been a good runner (although I had never run a marathon). The only problem I could foresee was the fact I could barely swim to save my life. That winter I signed up for masters swimming at SFU and hacked my way through the water as the coaches ground their teeth in horror. In the meantime, I improved my cycling greatly and I got into pretty good running shape.

My training and progress was looking good by the summer, until I injured both my knee and shoulder just months prior to Ironman. I had seriously considered dropping out, but friends encouraged me to stay with it and to focus mainly on finishing. The injuries healed somewhat, but due to continued pain I barely swam all summer - never swimming a full 4-km. This concerned me, as I would have hated to drop out of the race. But I said, "screw it" figuring that I would will myself through the swim. Before I knew it the big day had arrived, and surprisingly I was not overly nervous. I had a couple beers the night before, got up the next morning at 5:30 a.m. and headed off for the 7 a.m. start.

After changing into my wetsuit I walked around in a daze trying to avoid thinking about the torture that would soon begin. Then the clock struck seven, the gun went off, and I was suddenly surrounded by almost two thousand competitors. It was a surreal experience, almost as if I were a spawning salmon. You swim with only one of two goals in mind, the finish or the next course marker, as everyone else smacks into and swims right over top of you. By half-way through both shoulders started to go, but I said a small prayer, crossed my fingers, and somehow finished the swim (at the back of the field). I shrugged off the swim and turned my focus towards the 180 glorious kilometers of biking that lay ahead.

I was feeling good on the bike (the whole time thinking, "Wow! I survived the swim") and was making good time (42+ km/hr on the flats). I was passing many people and on many occasions I was forcing myself to slow my pace. I went through the first big climb well and hit the halfway point by two and a half hours (putting me on a pace about 20 minutes off the pros for the bike segment). It was looking good until the previous tendon injury in my knee flared up again to the point where I could no longer pedal with my right leg.

I didn't know what to do, so I continued riding with my left leg meanwhile muttering obscenities to myself. The bike support people saw me, questioned my sanity, then took pity on me and attached a wrench to the back of my bike so I could rest my right leg. I continued riding this way for remaining 80 km of the bike portion (though I ran out of obscenities after a couple kilometers). Let me tell you that doing this was not enjoyable, I had to make a 300 metre climb. Think of riding Burnaby Mountain with one leg. The spectators kept cheering me on and pushed me to the point where I was crying on the climbs because I couldn't stop in front of them. Those bastards! I think I love them all. I eventually finished the bike segment after riding for five bloody long hours with one leg.

Once off the bike I couldn't walk, collapsed, and was carried to the medical tent. There they took my timing transponder and massaged my knee and tendon for 40 minutes. Afterwards, I was able to bend my knee and hobble around the area. I was going to use one of the hot tubs and call it a day, but the top-finishers were coming in and I didn't want to look at them. I went to get changed and leave, when in my mind I could hear a friend calling me obscenities for making it this far then quitting. I looked at my watch; I still had seven hours before the race cut off. Since I had nothing else better to do with my day, I got my timing transponder back, and headed out to limp-walk a marathon.

After a while my knee loosened up enough to allow me to do a Terry Fox- style run for short periods. This is not an easy or comfortable way to run and now more than ever, I realize how much Terry Fox was a true hero. I continued on like this until close to 11 p.m. at night (midnight is the race cut off) when I finished 15 hours and 50 minutes after I had started the race.

I went into Ironman thinking the race was all about training, but I left with the realization that, like so many other things in life, your attitude really does determine your success. As soon as you feel that you are defeated, you have lost the fight. I am not suggesting that you can go out and do this race with no training; however, keeping a positive attitude towards events can get you through some rough spots. When my knee problem started to flare up I would never have guessed I could finish, but in the end I persevered. Better, more talented athletes may scoff at my 16-hour time, as I did too at first, but I now cherish every minute as it represents 950 tiny success stories.

So what's the next adventure? A 200+ mile 24 hour solo ultra endurance mountain bike race called Montezuma's Revenge, www.montezumasrevenge.com. Voted the world's worst race, it crosses the continental divide ten times while encompassing two 14 thousand-foot peaks, for a total of over 35 thousand feet of climbing. You climb the highest peak under a full moon and to date nobody has finished the entire course in 24 hours. You may be questioning my sanity at this point and rightly so, but I say what is life without a little misguided adventure?