How You Know

One of the peeps posted a question about Ironman somewhere to the effect of, "how do you know when you're ready?" I don't know if certainty about such a question is possible; however, here are a few guideposts and metrics against which you can measure yourself. You Ironman vets out there, please feel free to include your own additions in the comments.

1. If you groan and grit your teeth trying to get up out of a car seat, but a 50 mile ride is "tapering" or "recovery," you might be an Ironman.


2. If you walk like an arthritic octegenarian when you first get out of bed, but then run 20 miles after a quick cup of coffee and a Cliff Bar, you might be an Ironman.


3. If you dream about being late to the transition and showing up toting a race wheel with no tire (like last night maybe), you might be an Ironman.


4. If you feel like a Chevy Nova running on 3 cylinders the first 45 minutes of every workout, but then find a groove where you feel like you could go all day, you might be an Ironman.


5. If your bike begs you not to be ridden any more, because she's been rode hard and put away wet and sweaty, you might be an Ironman.


6. If the BSG (bike shop guy) winces and rolls his eyes at the dirty, gel-encrusted, deraillure grinding condition of your ride when you show up for tri bike transport, you might be an Ironman.


7. If you you lose count at "5" while looking at the black line on the bottom of a pool because you essentially "sleep swam" through a lap (or three) you might be an Ironman.


8. If your swimsuits and tri shorts are becoming so threadbare that you need a sexually oriented business license just to work out, you might be an Ironman.


9. If you have bookmarked a lake temperature guage and started a neoprene hedge fund, you might be an Ironman.


10. If your child gets up at 9:00 on a Saturday or Sunday and says (with genuine surprise), "Dad's home??!!", you might be an Ironman.

And some of my favorite ifs:

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be [an Ironman], my son!


--Rudyard Kipling