Well, I Got My Bib Number #IMWI

First, I’d like to say thanks to everyone who contacted me about my neighbor’s 23 lessons for training.  We were both happy to hear athletes all over the Southeast putting the advice right into their Ironman workouts.

Secondly, I have a bib number: 2705. mikecorey

It’s not quite as permanent as being etched in stone, but having an official race number adds another layer of authenticity to my commitment.  I’m not gonna lie, I was 90% sure I clicked send payment, but haven’t really been paying attention to emails (and am typically not the most organized person) so I honestly thought there was a remote possibility my name may not show up on the race list.  I mean, I knew I signed up for Ironman Wisconsin, but it was a long ass time ago and stuff like payments or lists can really get screwed up in a year.

But, clearly they have saved a spot for me.

Two years ago I had no clue what an Ironman was other than the distant memories of my childhood when I’d watch Kona and think those people were martians.  The sport didn’t even compute with the logic centers of my brain, and frankly, I’m not sure it does now.  But who said any of this was about being logical?

For me it’s been about breaking those boundaries down.  Too much logic can paint you into a corner and turn your life into a big pile of dust.

I truly believe we are limitless and it’s never too late to pursue even the wildest dreams.

Not that it’s good, bad, or even belongs in a blog about Ironman, but Ray Krok didn’t start McDonald’s until he was like 65 years old.  I actually read his biography called, “Grinding It Out,” and aside from the fact that he was, in many ways, leading a revolution that would compromise the health of human beings; he was incredibly passionate and followed his dream with tenacity of a 20 year old.

I have no doubt that Ray Krok could have done an Ironman if he put his mind to it and have no doubt you can do something equally challenging.

Why?  Because in just over a year and a half, I have taken myself from the fetal position on a couch to the doorstep of Ironman.  It has been anything but easy.  I have loathed at least half of the workouts, but kept jumping in the water, hopping on the bike, and lacing up the running shoes.

As they say, 90% of life, is showing up, and I can assure you I’ll be showing up on September 8th.

20 Days Out Lesson – Neighbor James

Mondays are a trip, man.  It aint easy to get up and dance.  But you gotta dance!  Grab that little Speedo u got,  then get your ass in a lake and dance with the barracudas!”

Swimming Alone In The Lake

I was five minutes away when I got the text message:

“Ya’ll know swim clinic is cancelled this morning, right?”

Nope, I didn’t know and didn’t care.  Nothing was stopping me.

I pulled into the park, greeted the gate keeper, then drove slowly across the speed bumps to take my pick of an endless sea of open parking spots.

I gazed at the water and listened to the silence.  I was a lone man with an entire lake at his disposal.467749_10200422778264618_2115504700_o
I was on time, in the bottom half of my wetsuit, ready to tackle nature, alone.

Then I heard sticks crackling under car tires as someone I didn’t know pulled in next to me.

He didn’t look like a swimmer, but who does, really?  He stood near his trunk and slid on rubber booties as I gathered my cap and goggles.  He was a portly, vaguely bohemian in his fishing hat, and sporting a scraggly beard.

I sized him up and decided to test his motivation.

“What brings you out this early on a Tuesday?”

“Oh, this is like my Christmas.”

Hmm . . . a mystery man.  Does he love swimming so much he deems each day a holiday?

“It is a beautiful day.”

“Yeah, but it’s all because of yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

“Yeah, musta been 300 people out here.  Cars backed up 20 deep.”

Yesterday was Memorial Day and and he couldn’t hold back a toothless grin as he reached in the trunk and pulled out a massive metal detector.

“There’s a gold mine waitin’ out there.”

As we talked, another swim clinic participant, Hunter, rolled in with a look of confusion on his face.

“Where the hell is everyone?”

“Cancelled.”

The word was barely out of my mouth and he was in reverse shouting, “Okay, I’m gonna hit the bike.”

That quickly, I was once again alone with Harry the metal seeker.

He shut his trunk and I tried my best to remember the Georgia license plate number on the back of his faded gray Honda.  “Plate number GHI . . . ” Damn, my memory is fleeting and I reasoned the gate keeper my best defense of my stolen car, or if I was the next body found floating in Percy Priest.

I was zipping my wetsuit when Sandy pulled up ready for her first swim clinic.  I told her it was cancelled, but I was going in.  We swam a while together, and I just kept going.  A man and his lake enamored with endless opportunity.  The cool water on my feet.  The soft waves splashing my face.  The unending invigoration offered by an isolated lake swim.

Occasionally I would sight Harry in ankle deep water near the shore.  A man on his own mission, lost in a world of uncovering buried treasure.  The endless possibilities.  The gold at the end of the rainbow.

His questionable aura melted away with each stroke and he became a source of inspiration.  He was on a similar quest for discovery.  Passionate enough to rise before the sun and follow his dreams.  Two men together, but so far apart, each reaching into the abyss for undefinable reward.

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Post Script:  Some people have expressed concern for the fact that I was swimming alone, but it should be pointed out that I swam back and forth next to a 200 yard orange “boom” (can be seen in the photo) that separates the deep water from the shallow.  It was well within the no-boat zone and easy to touch bottom.