And so I survived, I didn’t drown, crash, or pass out during the run. When I was in the water getting my ass handed to me, one of the wounded warriors swam up to me and then passed me. I dug in and matched his pace, he had one arm and he was kicking my butt. I was yelling at him in the water that he better beat me, you better burn me, don’t let me f@$ing catch you I yelled out at him. He maintained his pace and swam the 750m solid. I saw as he was getting on the bike, one of his helpers was attaching his prosthetic to the handlebars. He was in the zone just as I was, he wasn’t thinking about being wounded or the blast that did this to him, he was thinking about kicking my ass. We rode out and somewhere in the mass I lost him, I made it back to the rack and took off running all the while looking for the wounded warriors. There was one guy who was wounded in the legs so he rode a hand pedal cart, he was weaving through the crowds sweating like crazy (it was like 102 on the pavement). As We all finished the race and as collected our gear back at the bike rack our little huddle was laughing and sharing the war stories of the triathlon. That pack wasn’t the wounded warriors and the soldiers, it was not the wounded and the whole, it was a bunch of vets, a bunch of brothers who had found and triumphed over yet another challenge.
June 1, 2010