Editor’s Note – This was originally published in September 2009.

I’m alive.

ALIVE!!!

Well, I did it. I somehow managed to swim, bike and run a combined 14+ miles without dropping dead this past Saturday. This from a dude who once upon a time quit at Mile 2 of a 3 Mile Road Race -  huffing and puffing the whole way at the newly minted age of 17. Back then, the potent mix of testosterone and Glacial Chill Gatorade should have been enough to send me to the Moon and back, and yet I could barely muster enough energy for a little 30-minute  skedaddle. How I pity the virtuous vixens that shadowed my every step back then. All they wanted was a virile hunk of testosterone prime and instead they got Everybody’s All Asthmatic – sputtering his way through the day.

Two decades later, I leapt into a brilliant blue lagoon and never looked back. My head pointed straight away, I churned the waters, emerged from the depths, grabbed my bike and took it over hill and dale before dropping it and running for my life – or at least, the 3.1 miles remaining that stood between me and the single most athletic thing I’ve ever done in this life.  And all this was done without steroid enhancement or bionic augmentation.

100% Grade A Humphries, baby.

I wrote about my reasons for undertaking this challenge about a month back. If you didn’t then, check it out now. Simply put – as the years pass, I seem to crave finding something new to challenge myself. I’m not out to prove anything specific. Instead, this is simply about adding some spice to the routine. Of course, I’m not looking to completely redecorate my comfy environs. I like my life and feel happy when it’s recognizable but there’s an itch that I get annually where I just need a little curveball to take me out of that comfort zone and see if I can still swing for the fences. It’s no fun when you’re always sitting on the fastball – sometimes you want to challenge your abilities.

So, that’s why I joined up and as I mentioned, you can read all about it in the former post. But that piece is now prologue. I wanted to write these final words to share a few mental snapshots that I made sure to capture that beautiful Saturday morning and lay them bare here for all of you to enjoy.

So here’s how it all went down.

When Andi first signed us up, I simply read the site and saw it was called the TTD Triathlon. The race consisted of a quarter mile swim, an 11 mile bike ride and a 3 mile run. I didn’t give any thought to the acronym – I simply assumed it was a sponsorship deal. Instead, I keyed in on the three elements that I needed to tackle and then cobbled together my own rudimentary training program. It wasn’t until a week or so later that I discovered this triathlon had very significant meaning.

TDD stands for Tyrus, Dante and Daniel Vescio. Three infant triplets, children of local athletes Elaine and Don Vescio, who lived very brief lives. The proceeds generated by this memorial race are earmarked for the UMASS Medical Neonatal Intensive Care Unit to help nurture and improve the lives of other young children requiring such specialized care. This race was the first of what will become an annual event.

Suddenly, it held such importance – a weight far greater than any personal goals of my own and very quickly, this became less about me and more about honoring the tragically brief lives of three young boys struck down before they had a chance to experience the true wonders of the world. That they, in their momentary stay on this orb, were able to impact so many and in such an everlasting way – is itself further proof of the power of this life. And I took great heart and comfort and strength in knowing that I was no longer running for myself. I was journeying to keep their flame burning.

Anyway, we couldn’t have received a better day to stand testament to those three shining souls. It was another one of those brilliant, blue mornings that we New Englanders often enjoy in September. The autumn crisp settles in the morning before yielding to a few nips of summer splendor in the afternoon. While this past Saturday was a bit cooler than most and arguably, not the warmest early morn temperature for diving into a pristine body of water – it became glorious as the day dawned and the sun muscled in on that morning chill.

The race was set to begin at 9:00 a.m. at Douglas State Forest so Andi and I made plans to rouse our sleepy kid’s heads by 6:00 a.m. in order to get everyone fed and dressed. Despite the mammoth challenge facing us down that day, Andi had worked a double waitressing shift the day prior. Despite the fact that she went into the restaurant at 11:00 a.m. on Friday and didn’t retire until 9:30 p.m. that night, she bound from the bed ready to take this tri on. Once we had chomped down our cereal and Andi had conspired to throw a monkey wrench in my day by eating the lone banana I was saving for the occasion, we packed up the family Truckster and headed for the hills.

The strange thing about the ride is that I was surprisingly worry free. See, when thinking about the event in components it all seems extremely doable. A quarter mile swim is anywhere from 7 – 15 minutes depending upon equipment (wet suit) and swimming ability. I had been practicing at the Y and in the same lake over the last month or so and I had my stamina up to swim 15 minutes without stopping, so the anticipation of the swim didn’t vex me.

As for the 3-mile run, I’ve been doing that every day for the last 7 months. Sure, at the beginning it was all treadmill work but over the last month or so, I’d been hitting the streets. I’ve been up and down hills – dodging cars and dogs and the occasional wild turkey – and nary a single shin splint to show for it. So again, this felt like a check mark.

As for the bike ride, I didn’t practice one bit. In fact, I didn’t even check out my bike until the Friday before the race as it dawned on me that it would really suck if I woke at 6 a.m. on Saturday to find flat tires or rusted gears. So, I took it out for a mile or so the day before. It was the one wild card in my day but at the same time, I used to do 14 miles every other day when I lived in Mansfield (up Route 106) and I’ve been all around the islands on that thing, dodging those blasted scooters, so I figured I had the bike portion down pat.

Again, in pieces it all seems easy. When crammed together – one after the other after the other – suddenly it seems like a whole new breed of feral beast. And despite the fact that I run from bees on some occasions, on the morning of this challenge I felt like I could take this bitch.

Driving in to the park and seeing the other athletes arrive was the moment when it finally hit me. I was about to do something truly momentous. Yeah, I’m in better shape now than I was a year ago (or 17) but there is a wide gulf between 17 and 37 – between a 3-mile run and a moderate triathlon. Suddenly I felt the weight of it all. Granted, not the fear. Just the importance of it. Suddenly I felt like if I could finish this thing then I would have done something tremendous in my life.

And suddenly my mission became clear. Yes, there was the sentimental factor that I was doing this for the lives of those sweet little boys. But, I was also doing it for me – to prove to myself that I’m capable of doing things I once thought impossible – or at the very least, real hard. And in this current state, where I have been unemployed for the last 2 months and my prospects for new employment still quite slim, I felt like if I completed this race than I would have accomplished something. The tiniest measures can mean so much when they come at the right time.

After grabbing my race packet I headed over to a small gaggle of volunteers who were there to mark your body.  Your race number goes on your arms. Your age on your calves. I was Number 36 (just a hair off my age – 37). My assumption is that they draw on both arms in case you find yourself in some grisly accident. Like some grim fairy tale, they might have to pull a Cinderella and match one severed arm up with the body from whence it came. The last thing we need is a beefy #292 living out the rest of his days with my spindly forearm. So I was comforted in the notion that should I lose a limb, it would be returned to its rightful owner by day’s end.

By the way – I think they used  a Sharpie on me as I still can’t get the ink off. Not that I want to. Despite the fact that I waltzed around a kid’s backyard birthday party yesterday with twin 37s showing below my cargos, I wear it like a badge of honor. Or at least a gang sign. It’ll fade in time.

With the ink applied, we hit the transition area and readied our equipment. The way it works is the swim is first, which makes a huge deal of sense. You can’t go dunking’ a bunch of tired athletes in the drink after an arduous run. This isn’t mid-80’s Soviet Russia.

Anyway, following the quarter-mile swim, you need to run to the transition area and get your dry clothes on (or strip from your wet suit), grab your bike and pedal on your way. When you return, it’s back to the transition area to deposit your gear and then on to the run. And that’s the last leg before the Finish Line.

So we got everything situated, slapped on our timing chips (wrapped around the ankle so if I’m ever incarcerated, I’ll be an old pro) and then waited for the start. I think that’s when the magnitude of the event really hit me. As I stood in the midst of my crowded heat – identified by the color coded bathing caps we had strapped to our noggin – I looked out among the field of 440+ and instantly identified with all of them – not just those sporting a white dome. And then I spied a couple of foxy purples (that would be my beautiful wife Andi and our friend Sarah) strolling towards me and we all had big, back-slapping grins on our face. I’d like to think it was the good cheer that brought it on but they may have been frozen in place.

That’s the thing – while it was a beautiful morning, the mercury was somewhere south of 50 degrees in the moments before the 9 a.m. start. As I spent a good deal of my morning in anxious worry that DSS would round me up as yet another deadbeat Dad, collared for the crimes of being unemployed and allowing my children to romp around the woods on a frigid morning without mittens, scarves or gloves, I knew that it was a wee bit nippy. The kids seemed fine and I assured them that if I learned anything from The Empire Strikes Back it’s that all they need to do is flag down a friendly tauntaun and get in its belly. Or maybe that was on Man vs. Wild

Anyway, I shrugged off the cold and steeled myself for the task at hand. Practicing at the Y and later at this same  lake may have prepared me for some serviceable form and function, but there is no way it would have advised me of the feeling experienced when diving in the cool blue alongside 100 additional striving, thriving and flailing bodies. And that’s just the first heat of 5. They say don’t look back. Well, I looked back and realized that I was mere moments away from swimming with the fishes.

Of everything that transpired that day, the swim was hands down the hardest. I thought I was prepared and yet within seconds of splashing the surf, I realized that nothing short of this actual experience could have prepared me.

The water was cold. Not frigid, but chilly enough to contract my lungs and make each precious breath a rare commodity. As I pushed myself forward, my arms and legs pumping in unison, I felt foreign invaders grabbing and grasping at me as other  faster and more experienced swimmers overtook me and left me in their wake.

I kept pushing until I wound around that first buoy and got to the deepest portion of the swim – roughly the half way mark. At that point, my kickass blue Speedo Goggles were beginning to fog so I tried to continue swimming with one arm while using the other to extract them from my eyes in order to see a little clearer. Bad move. As I struggled with the goggles, I got clipped from behind and dunked for a moment. As I surfaced, gasping for breath, I was nailed by a wind whipped wave that shot a spritzer of spray into my mouth – forcing out the few remaining ounces of oh-two.  And then as I tried to right the ship and get back on track, I got nailed again.

That was the one moment where I felt in peril. While the course is ringed with “swim angels” watching over the swimmers to provide assistance (in the form of a noodle), the nearest one to me was about 20 yards out and looking the opposite way. I tried signaling and couldn’t get her attention. I thought  about soldiering on but I knew I needed to buy a minute or two to recollect my being before soldiering on so finally I swallowed pride and yelled “HELP!!!” She was over to me in a second and that noodle saved the day. I tried to hand her my goggles and ended up losing them in the drink. I then chatted for a few seconds as I drew in some air and more importantly, collected my game plan for the task at hand. And what I love is that she didn’t ask if I wanted to turn back. She simply said “You’re gonna’ nail this and I’m going to shadow you to make sure you do.” So for the remaining second half , she swam about 8 feet alongside me in parallel, barking orders of encouragement and pushing me to the first finish line. My deep sea drill instructor kept me on task and I couldn’t be more thankful for it.

If jumping into the water was culture shock, then emerging was deep catatonia. That chilly Fall air stung at every dripping ounce and as we scampered from the slightly warmed sand to the ice cold, shadow drenched grass  that ringed the transition area, trying to move faster but unable to until we got our land legs about us, we found the longest walk known to man. That glacial grass became my personal Green Mile. Still, with every step I felt my legs under me and eventually I made it to my bike where I had a towel and dry clothes spread out before me.

I quickly toweled off and then wrapped it around me so I could ditch the bathing suit and apply the proper trou for the occasion. Surrounding the transition area was a group of supporters (friends and families gathered en masse to wish their loved ones on) and with the action in that area as swimmers came in and morphed into bikers, all eyes were upon us. The perfect time for my towel knot to loosen at the very millisecond I was raising my shorts. It was a flash, for sure, but in that instant I am quite certain that I robbed an entire generation of their innocence. My guess is that I’ve now got to sign up at some registry and go door-to-door announcing my arrival to the neighborhood.

Once I was decent and cleared of all charges, I grabbed the bike and headed out to the open road. I caught site of my step-sis  Jamie and her brood (hubby Steve and daughters Ruby and Claire) wishing me on – as well as our good friend Stacey who started all this madness when she and Sarah first signed up for a triathlon in June. They were cheering loudly and it boosted my spirits immensely. Suddenly, my near death experience was a thing of the past and if anything, I could take comfort in the fact that my children Colin and Aria were in good hands.

The bike ride was fairly uneventful although it  was hilly as all Hell. At 11 miles, it was just long enough that by the time you got to Mile 7, you really thought you should be done. At Mile 8, I hit this course’s Heartbreak Hill – an incline that seemingly stretched forever and at the most impossible angle. The fact that my first observation of this hill came with a train of tiny dots alongside tinier dots (riders walking their bikes up the hill) didn’t exactly fill my heart with cheer. But, hills have long been my specialty and I made a mental pact that I was not hopping off the bike. If anything, I wanted to make amends to myself for that brief siesta at sea. So, I plowed forward and climbed Everest. It was long. It was hard. It was seemingly uphill in both directions in the midst of a snow storm (at least that’s the story I’m telling my grandkids) and yet I crested that thing and pushed forward.

Before I knew it, the ride was over. As I was riding in, a flood of runners were streaming out as the foot path overlapped the bike path for a mile. I was slightly tired but somehow stronger too and I was ready to ditch the bike and beat my feet for the last three miles. As I came streaking in, I caught sight of Jamie and Stacey with their cameras at the ready. I smiled pretty for the birdie and then dropped the bike and helmet off at the transition station. I lost a few seconds there when I couldn’t get my helmet off (my fingers were numb from the wind and cold). I finally got them loose enough to rip that thing off and then headed out for the last leg.

It was on the run that I encountered my two favorite moments from a pretty momentous day. While the run itself was fairly uneventful, like the bike ride it was dominated with some hills including one major heartbreaker at the midpoint. Despite being a different spot on the course, this hill was a kissing cousin to the last. Once again, a number of people had taken to walking up it  but I was determined to run it. It was a hard fought battle but I made it to the top and then began that blessed downward sprint. As I hit  the final mile of the day, I got my first great encounter.

Heading out on their last leg was Team Hoyt – the father/son team so famous for their annual Boston Marathon appearances. They are a local legend but for those that don’t know, Rick Hoyt was stricken with cerebral palsy from birth. His doting Dad, Dick Hoyt, as been by his side all the way through and early on in their family life, Dick decided  that he and Rick would enter into athletic competition to inspire the world – to show that anything is possible. They’ve done wonders for the developmentally challenged and their personal life story is awe-inspiring. It’s the type of tale that fuels our dreams – that proves that our mortal species, however maligned from time-to-time, is capable of real magic. And it proves that what truly elevates and inspires is love.

The fact that I got to  run alongside them for the briefest of moments just colored in the corners of a picture-perfect day.

And then, moments later, I spied a familiar face bounding my way. As I was on the last ½ mile stretch, Andi was heading out for the final 2 & ½ miles that loomed before her. I saw her. She saw me. Her face lit and mine beamed back and she yelled an enthusiastic “Heeeeyyyyyyy!!!” to which I replied “You’re gonna’ make it” which I’m sure came out as “youuuurrrrrgggonnmmaakkkkkiiiiiii”. Still, the message was received loud and clear. Though we were divided by time and gender we were in this together. We were bound for glory.

Finally, I crossed the finish line and instantly found my fan section. There was Jamie, Steve, Stacey and Sarah (she bemoans the fact that she skipped the last leg of the day but after 2 and 2/3rds triathlons she has nothing to feel ashamed of and humbles us all). Alongside them, were Colin, Aria, Ruby and Claire – having fun chasing each other around and angling for a sip of my water. I took in the hugs and high fives and grand inquisition from my kids as to when they could have a snack and just loved it all.

And then we waited for Andi to cross and repeated the same scene – only personalized for her special accomplishment. And Aria made due on her early morning promise. “Mama – If you do great at the race I’m going to give you a big hug.” Well, she passed that test with flying colors as Aria sprinted to pay up.

We did it!!!

We did it for Tyrus.
We did it for Daniel.
We did it for Dante.

And we did it for ourselves – to mix things up and try something we’d never done before. And sure, there are tougher hauls out there, but for me, this was one of the most challenging things I’ve ever done.

And I freakin’ aced it, baby.

But it wouldn’t hit me until later that day. Just a random fleeting thought that burst the chains of conscious thought and settled in for a moment’s spell. I flashed back to 1989 when I skipped out on that race and then I performed the necessary mental gymnastics to deduce that two decades later, I’d schooled that punk ass former version of myself for good.

I’m proud of that.

Now, as I write this, a few days removed, I cast my eyes towards that #36 etched above my elbows. It’s started to fade as the days and the Dove work their magic. As I gaze at the imprint and look back upon my output, I can’t help but feel a wistful smile crease my cheeks.

Although I scrub and scrub in order to cleanse the canvas, here’s hoping that ink lingers a little longer.