Iron Man Impostor

I'm in Goa, for a ‘70.3’ Ironman race. This is half the full Ironman, and our race tomorrow consists of a 1.9 km ocean swim, a 90 km cycle ride, and a 21 km run. The total distance converts to 70.3 miles, hence the title. Which also reminds one that the US is one of the few countries to not have switched to the metric system*.

In the hotel room across the hall from me, a bunch of athletes are servicing their cycles - “They picked up a lot of dust on the drive from Pune”. A few hours later, I spot them wheeling their cycles into the racking stations at Miramar, from where the race begins. Every steed, from the most basic of hybrid cycles to a carbon frame bike with a rear disc wheel; the wheel alone costs 2 lakhs.

At 3 in the afternoon, the Goa sun is scorching, and the humidity intense. “These guys are going to run 21 km in this heat!”, my wife exclaims.

Quite heroic. Thankfully, I'm in a relay squad, and will just do the swim; with a little bit of luck, I'll be out of the water by 8 a.m, to hand over our timing chip - an electronic baton, if you would - to Sagar, our cyclist. Abhi, our runner, will be on the tarmac at noon, and my only remaining task will be to join him in the last 100 meters.

For my pains, if our team finishes before the cutoff time of eight and a half hours, I will get a finisher’s medal, and T-shirt, the same as the warriors of the hot tarmac.

Which is why I feel like an Ironman impostor. Also why I won't be writing a substantive post this weekend. The least I can do is wait in the athlete holding areas, and cheer my team mates along.

*We Indians have largely converted to the metric system, except for the one quirk, that we still measure people's heights in feet and inches. If I told you I am 194 cm. tall, odds are, you'd look a little bemused, confused, or both.