I Am Iron Man

Life is a quest for happiness that each man defines in his way.

I was seated on a plane to Chennai, to compete in the Ironman race.

The Ironman race is considered as one of the toughest one-day endurance races in the

world. It consists of a 3.9 km swimming followed by 180 km of cycling and

eventually a 42.2 km of running, back to back and with a cut off time of 17 hours.

On the race day, I met an athlete about 65

or possibly 70 had come to compete. I greeted him

warmly and desperately hoped that he finish the race.

The quarry for the swim was lined with ropes, tires and manned by volunteers on

rafts.

The sun was just peeping out as athletes warmed up for a grueling 13 laps. I, however, felt extremely calm despite the excitement all around. With the flag going

down, we dived into the water. And so it began.

I swam to the endpoint of the quarry where the majestic rock signaled a U-turn.

Floating still at its foot, I scaled the peak with my sight and felt utterly eclipsed. White birds flew off from nearby trees owing to the sudden disturbance. It appeared a place for the poets and dreamers rudely interrupted by us athletes.

Things were however soon set to change with new batches of swimmers pouring in. The quarry was now littered with hands and legs and limbs

fighting and splashing water all over to float past.

That was when a kick from an uncontrolled leg landed on my face. Its owner, a bulky

man apologized and swam on. I pulled away to check if my nose was bleeding. Things were fine but

it did not stop me from being contemptuous of his futile efforts to swim with a poor

technique and still poorer fitness. I also noticed the already tired swimmers clinging to the center rope and tires like frogs clinging to surfaces.

Maintaining a steady and relaxed pace, I was out of the water in 2 hours 41 mins

having swum a 3.9 km amidst huge applause. In about 10 minutes I had changed and was ready for the next venture. 180 km of

cycling track now lay ahead of me lit by the extra strong sun of Chennai.

The track passed through desolate highways and occasional busy intersections. Aid

stations were set up every 20 km loaded with energy drinks, electrolytes, fruits,

snickers, sandwiches, and the ever-helpful volunteers. I was averaging 20 km an hour

without much effort including the 5 mins pit stops.

The sun had by now crawled overhead. The long dry

stretches of dry lefts and dry rights in the dry highways were thankfully something I

was accustomed to. I just needed to maintain the momentum and keep the nutrition

right for everything else to fall into place.

Eventually, I completed the 180 km of cycling in a healthy 8 hours 09 mins.

I changed to my running shorts, fuelled myself and broke into a run. I had to complete my story by

bridging a 42 km run gap to the finish.

The running loop passed through a village where the people appeared to have made

peace with sights of runners passing by now and then. This, however, did not stop a

certain little boy to ask a question to me. “Uncle, how are you?” he inquired with a smile and a wave. After a 4 km swim followed by 180 km of cycling in the

generous Chennai sun and now into a 5km run with another 37 km to go, that

question suddenly took on a very sinister double meaning. I scrutinized that little face

for any signs of mischief but found only innocence. Not wanting to bother him with a

detailed answer, I just said “fine” and moved on.

Things were however far from being fine. My tongue refused to let in any of the food

that I was having so far. I had to rely only on liquids and gels and yet be very careful with that. 

With the sun long gone it was now completely dark. I switched on my torch and ran avoiding the batches of potholes.

Occasional trucks would pass by pushing me to the edge of the road and bathing me with dust.

The stray dogs now looked me in the eye. Up in the sky, it was a moonless night. I was somehow thankful for I had always associated the moon with artistic contemplation and did not want it to see me in the

not-so-comfortable state that I was in now. Shops were beginning to close down and people were heading homes. Cows sat here and there with eyes closed and munching endlessly as if on chewing gums. 

At a certain point when I stopped to pee, although I stood steady, I could not feel my

legs. It was as if I was floating from my waist up. But instead of being worried, I ended up congratulating myself. Numbness in the legs also meant numbness to any pain in them, I argued. Having thus convincingly tricked myself, I started the jog again. The words of Robert Frost looped endlessly in my head, “Miles to go before I sleep and miles to go before I sleep.”

At about midnight I crossed over the finish line amidst many cheers. I had completed my first ever full marathon in 5 hours 8 minutes and consequently the

feared ironman race with a total time of 16 hours and 14 minutes. slightly within the cutoff

time of 17 hours. I was congratulated and clapped for by each one present. Strangely, I was blank. I did not feel any happiness or pride; In fact, I did not feel anything. I smiled for the camera with the

vacuum inside perplexing me.

The next morning I took an auto to the airport which passed through the same route I had previously cycled in. I looked at the road which now mercilessly hid all traces of the dreams that hundreds of athletes had chased here just yesterday. It was now flocked

by regular people going on their regular lives.

But then again, I wondered, do regular people not have dreams? Or are their dreams not worth it? And most importantly how exactly would one define the term “regular”? I watched the people. There were mothers with vegetable bags in one hand and their

little ones in the other. Could I look at life from their perspective? Here they were, balancing a family, maintaining a household and sometimes their work lives too. And yet when as a kid you complained at the dining table about the dal not being quite right, she would lovingly fix it up not bothering you of the intricacies involved. Only years later when you lived alone and learned to cook your food would you realize what it took to “fix” that dal. And then you would be too ashamed to even apologize. Was she, I dared to think, any less of an ironman?

I looked at the old rickshaw puller who had to do trips in the sun for sustenance when others in his age group were expected to retire. He did not seem to have any aid stations he could stop by or volunteers he could go to for energy drinks and gels. He would probably call it a happy day if he managed three square meals.

Was he, I dared to think, any less of an ironman?

I thought of the not-so-thin swimmer who had accidentally kicked me. Granted he was

bulky, but does not the fact that he was competing, talk high of his determination? You

could strengthen your body in a year or two but it takes much longer, sometimes forever to strengthen your mind. He had it already.

And what about those frogs on the tires, I thought. They were not good swimmers. But despite that, they were there in that deep quarry for reasons stronger than their fears. Would I have the heart to do what they had done when my swimming skills

were only developing? If not, what gave me the right to compare them with clingy frogs?

I even thought myself naive at one point for having worried about the 65-70-year-old athlete. He did not have to cover 226 km on human power to be a certified ironman. The fact that he had the heart to show up for a race of this magnitude when others of his age group had retired proved beyond anything that he was already an ironman.

Anyone with a goal in life that they followed up with passion and determination appeared to fit the expansive definition of an ironman to me.

Later in the airplane, the evening sun had peeped in through the circular window with a ray of ochre yellow. I sat pondering on my sense of inner vacuum. Here I was, having followed a strict diet and exercise routine every day for a year, an ironman. I had lost 13 kgs including muscles and was now at the fittest best of my life and yet somehow, that ecstatic happiness or the narcissistic pride that I had expected to

follow me on being an ironman, eluded me. It was as if nothing had happened.

There could be many or perhaps no explanation at all. The journey was perhaps rightfully more beautiful than the destination was. Perhaps life is after all an unending quest for happiness and finally, you got what you thought would make you happy, life casually asks you to move on. Maybe that is how evolution shaped us up so we would always be on the move and keep dreaming and chasing them. Maybe it is about the

chase itself and not the dream. Maybe that is what stops us from stagnating. Maybe that is what makes us all a potential ironman.