For having lost but once your prime, you may for ever tarry.

In August 2010 I returned to the Luray International Tri in an attempt to beat my personal best on that course.  The day was fraught with challenges, starting with my bike.  Exactly 60 minutes before start time, I got on my bike to roll into the transition area, and when I shifted into a higher gear, the shifter cable snapped.  I spent the next 59.9 minutes trying to find a mechanic with a spare shifter cable, threading the cable through my bike, adjusting my shifting, and setting up my transition area.  I forgot my timing chip, so I had to sprint back to the transition area for the chip and sprint back down to the start line.  I was literally putting on my swim cap while the race organizer counted down to the starting bell.  (Thank heavens I'm in an old man wave, or I would have missed my start.)

I came out of the water at exactly the same swim time as the previous year -- despite months of working on my swim stroke.  I shook it off and gave the the rest of the race my best effort.  As I crossed the finish line and looked at my watch, I was devastated.  12 seconds slower than 2009.  12 seconds.  In an event that took me nearly 3 hours to complete, I came within 12 seconds.  I clenched my fists and howled in disappointment.  I packed up my bike and drove two hours home, cursing myself all the way for "blowing it."

One month later, my life changed.  And so did my entire outlook on athletic events.  In September of 2010, during the DC Ragnar Relay, a member of our team passed away on the race course.  What began as a silly and epic relay among an oddball group of runners ended suddenly with a tragic loss of life.  In the hours and days that followed, I reevaluated my own life and specifically my athletic hobbies.  Perhaps running was too risky.  Biking to work suddenly felt too dangerous.  Open water swimming was just a drowning waiting to happen.  Almost overnight, the one element in my life that kept everything else in balance -- my exercising -- became the element that caused the most fear and anxiety.

But running is more than a hobby for me.  It's who I am.  Several days after the incident, I fought back the anxiety and emotion and put on my running shoes.  I will never forget the suffocating feeling of running the first mile.  Runners and bikers cruised along the path all around me, unaware of the internal struggle I faced.  As I put that difficult first mile behind me, my body found its natural rhythm again, and my legs carried me out of my fear and onto the path ahead.

Every mile since then has been different for me.  Even today, I still feel tremendous guilt for having been disappointed about my 12 second deficit at Luray.  After all, I completed the triathlon.  I drove home after Luray, and spent the rest of the day with my kids.  I have biked, run, or swum many days since then.  And one year after the tragedy, our team, including the widow of the teammate we lost, completed the DC Ragnar.  I will never be disappointed in the outcome of my workouts or events.  I'm grateful that I have the ability to even start these events.

Every mile on the path or in the pool is one more mile that I might not have had.  When I finish off a long swim, out of breath, with my heart pounding in my ears, my whole body feels the heavy air rushing into my lungs.  When I carve around a corner on my bike, wind flowing through my body, I can't suppress a smile.  When I run across Memorial and Key Bridges on my morning loop, I watch the sun rise over the national monuments and watch the fog slowly lift itself from the Potomac River.  The beauty and joy of it all is overwhelming sometimes, and I will not take these experiences for granted for as long as I am able.