I AM IRONMAN. Well, not quite...

I finished survived a triathlon today.

Let me back up.

Three years ago, my brother-from-another-mother, Travis Berkley, woke his own inner, sleeping giant and trained and completed a half-Ironman triathlon. I was intensely proud of him for his achievement, and even more so when he kept at it afterwards, training and competing in more races each year. On a lark, he and I entered a duathlon together last year, and he made me look like I was sedentary, lazy, gluttonous, and dipsomaniacal.

Guilty as charged.

A seed was planted in my less-than-fertile brain, but I had a problem that could hold me back from reaching my potential: I couldn't swim. Oh sure, I splash around in the pool, and I can tread water for a bit, but at 42 years of age, I couldn't submerge my face and stroke my way to the other side of the tub, much less across a lake. Yeah, I took swimming lessons as a kid; I was smart enough to fake my way through them.

I entered a super-sprint triathlon last Summer (200 meters in a pool, 8-mile bike, 2-mile run). I stunk up the place, dog-paddling the swim, flatting on the bike, and walking the run. Clearly, I'm capable of more. I needed a goal, like Travis had, so I set one; I announced to everyone that I was going to enter and complete the Jackson County Triathlon, about 9 months away.

What an idiot.

I knew I needed to get swimming help fast, and I found it in the Gladstone Community Center Master's Swim Program, with amazing coach Doug Hayden. He's been amazingly patient with me, and got me actually believe-it-or-not swimming in no time at all. I still suck, but after dozens of hours and mile after mile of laps, I'd reached the point I just might be able to swim 1000 meters in the open water.

Then, the race promoters changed everything right before the race, upping the distance to 1500 meters. And thank God they did, because it required me to change my race from "Olympic" distance to the halved "Sprint" distance (750 meter swim). If not for that, I'm not sure I would have made it.

So, after months and months of working, training, spending (triathlon is NOT a cheap hobby!), and most of all swimming, today was the day. I stood there on the beach with hundreds of other athletes, waiting for the starter's whistle.

Athlete. It feels funny for me to type that. I've never been an athlete. I try to stay active, but I don't think I fit any legal definition of an athlete. Regardless, the whistle went off, we started swimming, then we had to walk a good distance because of the low lake level, and then we began the swim in earnest.

And then all that work, all that preparation, all that training, all seemed to fail me all at once.

I kicked. I flailed. I flopped. I inhaled great, gasping gulps of warm lakewater. Other swimmers bashed into me from all sides. I tried to stay calm; I heard Coach Hayden in my ear: "Relax! Relax!" and I relaxed as hard as I could. But less than 200 meters into the swim (before the first turn) I'm exhausted, hyperventilating, and scared. I heard a swimmer call for help, and a lifeguard boat came to his aid, 20 or so feet from me.

To get the full feel and description of the rest of the swim, please add the following phrase to the end of every sentence for the rest of this post: "I wanted so, so badly to give up."

I mean it. In that moment, with the rescue boat an easy holler away, I wanted nothing more than to raise my hand, get pulled from that terrifying water, and make up some excuse once I reached shore. The boat left before I could resolve to do it, though, and I was stuck alone, gasping, and 50 meters from the next buoy. I pressed on for about half that distance, and it didn't get any better.

Look carefully in the photo above. I'm wearing an emergency life vest on my right hip. A yank on the rip cord and I'd be floating, disqualified, but alive. I ran my fingers over the pouch, found the cord, and thought. I wanted so, so badly to give up.

I don't know why I didn't. I really don't. Maybe it was all the investment I'd made -- in time, in money, in bragging. Maybe I just realized that if I failed at this attempt, I'd be forced to try again next year, and I really didn't want to do that. So I found something deep. Something even I didn't know was down there. I know I'm capable of far more than even I am aware. And by God, I was going to find it. I took my fingers off the pouch, and I never touched it again.

My life's goals narrowed to 50 meter increments. "All I ever need to accomplish is reaching that next lifeguard. I can rest there as long as I need. And I can quit there if I really want to."

"All I ever need to accomplish is reaching that next lifeguard. I can rest there as long as I need. And I can quit there if I really want to."

"All I ever need to accomplish is reaching that next lifeguard. I can rest there as long as I need. And I can quit there if I really want to."

I blew off course more times than I can remember. Lifeguards would holler, whistle, and even splash me in the face when I backstroked to turn me in the right direction. They were all encouraging. One leg after another. Fifty meters at a time. Slow and steady survives the race. Around the halfway point, I was resting on a life belt when a passing swimmer punched me in the jaw. She didn't do it on purpose, of course, and it wasn't that hard a hit. But I'm guessing it was a metaphor for something. I hope someday to figure out what.

And then there were only three buoys left. Two buoys. The lifeguards were swimming in to shore with me. That's right, I was one of the very last people to reach the beach. I could see my beautiful wife, Jayne, waiting for me there. Almost alone, patiently waiting for me to prove heaven knows what to heaven knows who, she was there to greet me. One buoy. I stood and felt sand between my toes. I've never been happier to be on a beach.

I hit T1, did the bike, did the run, yadda, yadda, yadda. In the thinking time I had during the rest of the tri, I decided that I like testing myself, I love to bike, and I've even grown to appreciate running. And perhaps most miraculously, I've come to enjoy swimming as a form of exercise. I hope to keep it as part of my routine. I'm not so sure about the competitive thing, the open-water thing. I'll take some rest time to ponder, but I think I may have just competed in my last open-water event.

After 9 months of work and achieving my goal, it's time to reflect on what I have become, and where I plan to go from here. For all that work, I still don't think I'm an "athlete," by whatever legal definition you may choose. But I am proud of what I've done. I don't plan to stop here; I've always said that one of my driving forces is to become more than I am. I have more proof now of my ability to do that than I've ever had. I wanted so, so badly to give up. But I didn't. I may not be an "athlete," but I am something that no one can ever take away from me:

I am a triathlete.

The resemblance is uncanny.