Over the past several weeks, I’ve been discussing tending to our subtle body—ways to maintain wellness through managing our energy as it relates to the friends we choose, the media we choose, how to manage energy in a group, and how we consume the news, or rather how it may be consuming us. There’s more I want to say on this subject but I wanted to give subtle body a break this week and instead insert a different story, a story about a time when my body and integrity was tested to the max.

Ironman Nice happened this weekend and no, I did not compete.

Last Friday morning as I was walking along the Promenade des Anglais, Nice’s famous boardwalk, on my way to teach yoga to some private clients at their villa overlooking the sea, I could feel the anticipation for the Ironman like palpable energy in the air. Uber-fit athletes were doing easy pre-race runs along the promenade, prancing around like race horses before a big race. Event workers were busy scurrying around like roadies assembling the outdoor arena for these athletic rockstars, constructing tents, transition stations, and the finish line.

All this pre-Ironman energy gave me a flashback to a moment in my life that tested my mettle with immense challenge to both my physical stamina and more importantly my integrity.

Ironman is that small little sporting event where athletes perform a mere 2.4-mile splash in the ocean, then hop on their little bikes wearing fun alienesque, aerodynamic helmets for a merry 112-mile spin, and then just to round out the afternoon, they hop off their bikes and leg it at top speed for 26.2 miles, that’s a full marathon.

The Ironman has always fascinated me—a veritable feast of grit and endurance. Some of my best friends have completed Ironmans and watching them train and perform showed me that regular people, people I knew, could do this event.

I had to wonder, did I have what it took to do an Ironman?

So, many ago, I decided to do my first sprint triathlon, a drop in the bucket compared to a full Ironman with only a .5-mile swim, 12.4-mile bike, and 3.1-mile run. I surprised myself (as well as my seasoned triathlete friends) by taking 2nd place in my age group. And since then, I’ve competed in several triathlon sprints including a few hosted by Westminster college.

But, a sprint triathlon is miles from full Ironman (124.6 miles to be exact) and the question nagged me whether or not I could manage to do a FULL Ironman. Maybe I’d hate it. Maybe it would be miserable. Maybe I’d love it and find a new passion in life. Either way, I had to try.

So, in 2015, the same year my son was born, I registered for the “Tough Man,” a half Ironman. I thought, before registering for a full Ironman, I would be wise to work up to these things.

The event was scheduled to be held only miles from where I grew up in Orem, Utah and would feature a 1.1-mile open swim in Utah Lake, a 56-mile bike through flat farmland, and a 13.1-mile run along the paved trails skirting the lake, trails I’d ran thousands of times growing up.

The swim worried me the most, not only because it was my weakest sport but also because, sadly, growing up friends didn’t let friends swim in Utah Lake. I mean, its dubious green hue and visible pollution floating in the lake did not make for a great swimming spot. But I registered anyway thinking (hoping, moreover) that I’d heard that they’d done extensive cleanup since my childhood.

Concerning the bike, my brother-in-law had decided the year before to retire from triathlons and gifted me his beautiful, high-end racing road bike which, after trudging around on a steel framed mountain bike for several years, felt like feather-light, well-tuned, and foot-powered Ferrari. Plus, I figured that since I would be biking through mostly flat ground, I could lean back and let the bike do most of the work. Piece of cake.

Then there was the run. Of the three events, running is my forte. At the point of registering for this race, I’d run 4 marathons and several half marathons and had always run for the sheer pleasure of it so I felt I could probably run a half-marathon straight off of the couch with little or no training. In short, the run was no problem.

Half Ironman, “I got you!”

Or so I thought.

Let me say at the outset that I vastly underestimated the time I’d need to train as well as the amount of time I’d need to care for my infant son. Not long after registering, I realized that I was probably in over my head. I considered giving up on the half Ironman but figured that even if I didn’t have all the time I wanted to train, I’d do my best and lean on my general fitness thanks to my regular runs and practicing yoga to pull me through.

Jumping in the pool for my first training swim was a wake-up call. I quickly realized the 1.2-mile swim of half Ironman a was drastically different from the .5-mile swim of a sprint triathlon. Admittedly, I was not in my best swimming shape but after just a few laps I was sucking so much wind that the lifeguard was eyeing me steadily wondering if at any moment she would need to drag me out of the pool and administer CPR.

And this was swimming in the controlled and chlorinated environment of a swimming pool, mind you, not the open water of dodgy Utah Lake where I would be dodging not only the feet of other swimmers furiously kicking in my face but also perhaps also old tires, possibly glowing 3-eyed fish, or worse.

I emerged from my first training swim feeling humbled, like I was a lake minnow about to be dropped into the ocean of competitive swimming. I was going to need a LOT of time in the pool so I decided to focus most of my training on the swim.

During this time, I was a professor of Yoga For Wellness, an accredited class at Westminster College in Salt Lake City, and had free access to their pool early in the mornings before class. Since swimming was my weakest sport, I figured that if I could at least get my sea legs beneath me, the other two sports would be relatively easy to tune up. So I spent a lot of time in the pool (often 4 days a week) and bit by bit, I was very pleased to see myself sucking less wind. Eventually, I could even swim a mile or more without stopping.

As for running, I ingeniously combined my childcare with my running thanks to a fancy jog stroller we’d purchased. A few times a week, I’d put my infant son in the stroller and he’d fall asleep as I pushed him 5 miles up and 5 miles down the paved canyon road near my home, lulled by the hum of the tires against the asphalt. Due to the relatively steep incline of the canyon road and pushing the extra weight of kid and stroller, I figured I was getting a better workout than if I was just running alone.

Remember that my plan for the bike was to let the bike do all the work. Still, I knew I couldn’t ignore training on the biking so I’d ride when I could, mostly weekends. I did a few long rides, maybe the longest being 45 miles or so. On these long rides, my pedaling cadence would put me into a meditative state as I glided along the lonely roads bordering Great Salt Lake listening to Shogun on audiobook (all 53 hours of it). The problem with training for the bike was that it took a lot of time, time I just didn’t have with a new kid.

After many months of my less-than-robust training schedule, the race was set to pop in only 5 weeks. I knew I hadn’t done enough training to feel comfortable in this half Ironman but nonetheless, I was determined to do my best. Adding to my poor planning for adequate training, I’d also scheduled a working trip and vacation to Spain and France—a yoga retreat with my wife, then 1-year-old son, and sister whose life-long dream had always been to go to Europe.

While on vacation, I’d wake up very early to run the Paris streets before everyone else got up. This afforded me an entirely unique view of this city, a city I thought I knew so well. Thanks to some of the longer runs I did on that trip, I discovered how relatively small Paris feels when you circle through several arrondissements and arrive back to your AirBnB after running through the almost tourist-free streets at 5 am.

I came home from a decadent trip to Europe feeling sluggish, jetlagged, and worried about this race. I only had a week or so left to prepare for this race. Apart from a few runs while in France and Spain, I justified my break from training by telling myself that I’d simply taken my taper early, that part of one’s training where you back off to allow your body the chance to load up on rest and energy. I justified that I had supplemented my extended taper with loads of baguettes, croissants, and cheese to build up the necessary carbs to do this race. I knew this was a lie but baguettes or not, I was doing this race.

The day before the race, the organizers sent out an urgent email stating that they were forced to cancel the swim due to an “algae bloom” in the lake making it unfit for people to swim. Fears confirmed. Instead of swimming, we’d be running the same distance, 1.2 miles, along the shore where the swim would have taken place. I was gutted. I had swam more than either of the other two events and now they were canceling the swim. Plus, quietly inside, I didn’t think this event would really count as a “true” half Ironman.

To add insult to injury, the night before the race, I began to get a sore throat and stuffy nose. Noooooo! I couldn’t get sick right before the race. I pounded some vitamin C and went to bed early but I still woke up on the morning of the race with a stuffy nose and scratchy throat. What was worse was that I felt very low energy.

But cold or not, I was doing this race and for the hour + drive to the venue, I gave myself a massive pep-talk.

The half Ironman started great. I was feeling great as I jogged the 1.2 mile run-not-swim which was a mild warmup for the bike.

I was having fun and feeling pretty good until about mile 25 into the bike, my knee started to really hurt. Guess, I should have done more training on the bike. I used yoga breathing techniques to breathe energy into my knee and tension out. It worked and before long my knee felt perfectly normal. I felt like I had an unfair advantage with all these yoga techniques up my sleeve.

But about 10 miles later, about 35 miles into the bike, my legs really started to burn. I wasn't even halfway done with the event and already my energy was seriously winding up. This couldn’t happen! My hydration and fuel were on point but my legs felt like they were done. Kaput.

Then, I remembered some of the visualizations I had done weeks prior to the event: I remembered a time when I felt amazing during a bike ride. After only a few minutes of putting myself into this mindstate, all those sensations, emotions, and energy came back to the surface. Boom, energy was back again. Ha! My mantra was, "Energy in. Tension out. Energy In. Tension out." I wasn't breaking any land speed records, and I ignored the fact that most of the other racers were passing me on their bikes, but that didn’t matter. I was moving steadily forward and feeling good.

… Until my back tire blew out.

I stopped, pulled off to the side of the road and to my luck, no sooner did I remove my punctured tube then the aid-van arrived. Out stepped a tutu-wearing bike-cowboy named Rorey who kindly asked me to step aside while he replaced the tube, pumped the tire, and replaced the tire onto my bike in what seemed like seconds flat. It was like watching a seasoned, professional cowboy rope a calf at a rodeo.

Disclosure: no bikes were harmed in the production of this story.

By now, I was about 4 hours into this event. I'd finished my pre-run-not-swim and the bike portion of the event and was thrilled to be slipping on my running shoes to run the paths I’d trod thousands of times in the past. This was going to be my strongest sport. I had this!

The run comprised two loops each 6.55 miles long. After the first mile or so, I was really feeling it—totally exhausted. My legs were throbbing, my lungs were screaming, and it was scorching hot July afternoon heat, but I was upright and still putting one foot in front of the other. I just continued with my mantra, "Energy in. Tension out. Energy in. Tension out."

On my first go around the loop, I recognized the furthest point of the loop. I figured this because there was an aid station with both water and energy drinks on a table as well as balloons and other decorations with and a speaker blasting hip-hop … that is until the music started cursing loudly which made the very worried woman assigned to direct traffic at that aid station to scramble and change the music.

At the aid station, there was a T in the road with an arrow pointing right and a sign that said 2.5 miles to lap/finish. I looked right and saw other runners in that direction and started hobbling in that direction just as some decidedly more wholesome music started over the speakers.

My muscles were burning, I was exhausted, and I was moving slowly but I told myself that I just needed to finish this loop and repeat it one more time and then I would be finished.

When it started to feel impossible, I'd look down at my arms to access my lifeline: I had used a Sharpie to write in big black letters, "Sennie" on my left arm and "Ellie" on my right. Seeing the names of my two most favorite people was magic. It gave me my heart wings and put my spirit back into the race.

As I finished the first loop, there they were: Sennie and Ellie. I hadn’t seen them since the night before and seeing them was everything to me. Also accompanying Sen and Elio were my mom and sis. What made that special in retrospect is that both of whom have since passed away. I was buoyed to have all 4 of them—Sen, Elio, my mom and sister—standing there, cheering me on (except Elio who was only 1 and was just getting the hang of standing, and who was probably confused by all the commotion, and likely just happy that he was spending a Saturday afternoon NOT getting schlepped around in the jog stroller).

"One more loop! I'll be back here in an hour," I shouted as I bounded off for my second loop, my fists pumping in the air.

But my jolt of enthusiasm quickly thinned. Every mile got harder and harder. I was reduced to making little goals for myself, "Just get to the mile marker, that's all.” Soon, my goals were reduced to the next half mile marker and eventually simply to the next turn in the road.

On those last 6.1 miles, I was running on fumes. This was the most difficult thing I’d ever done to my body. I was utterly spent, my reserves were gone, and it was sheer endurance to keep going. One. Step. At. A. Time.

Finally, like an oasis in the desert, I arrived at the furthest aid station, the point with the drinks, balloons, and speaker which was now hymns or something. Finishing felt almost impossible but I gave myself a pep talk by telling myself again that all I had to do was make the turn and head back along the road for the last 2.5 miles and to the finish line. I was on the home stretch!

But then I saw something horrifying.

Devastating.

I realized that on my first lap, at the T in the road, I was supposed to turn LEFT, not right. The road to the right was actually a continuation of the leg that started off to the left. I realized that I’d skipped an entire mile and a half of the first loop, an impossible distance in my current state.

Now, it was ME who was cursing loudly at the aid station. Fortunately, I couldn’t afford the calories to curse out loud and resigned to only scream in my head.

As I stood there for a few minutes, my spirit utterly destroyed, justifying to myself all the reasons why I shouldn’t run this forgotten leg. The course was poorly marked, especially for someone whose brain is in energy-saver mode. The woman assigned to direct traffic was more worried about the music cursing loudly than doing her job (you have 1 job!). Plus, without the swim, this wasn’t a “true” half Ironman so it wouldn’t count regardless of whether or not I ran the forgotten leg.

Everything in my body and soul was begging me to forget the forgotten lef and just turn right, take the shorter path to the finish line.

But I knew I couldn't do that. I’d be cheating, cheating myself. Even if the woman at the aid station wasn’t directing traffic well, it was still my responsibility to ascertain the correct path. It was my mistake, not hers.

It was one of those stark moments that truly tested my integrity.

I knew what I had to do so I pulled myself together, steeled my resolve … and turned left.

I ran the mile and a half and once back at the aid station of despair, I paused for a moment (crying to myself—more internal cursing) and turned around to do it … all … again.

Only after doing the forgotten leg TWICE did I finally take the coveted right turn for the final 2.5 miles to the finish where my family was waiting for me with worried faces. After all, I said I’d only be an hour but I didn’t return to the finish line for almost another 2 hours. They were worried that maybe I’d died or something on the second loop.They were more correct than they knew.

Few things in life have felt so satisfying as crossing the finish line, ceasing to run, and lying on the grass—race over.

So, I salute anyone with enough gumption to either attempt or finish any endurance sporting event, whether it be Ironman Nice, a sprint triathlon, or the not-a-true-half-but-tuffer-than-you-know “Tough Man.”

More than physical endurance, this “Tough Man” taught me about how tough it is sometimes to maintain my own personal integrity.

It showed me that I can muster the strength to do what’s right, even when I’m completely spent, and even when it’s easy to justify that my difficult situation is someone else’s fault. It also taught me never to compete in an event I haven’t trained for.

Thanks for hearing my story. I’d love to hear yours. Drop me a line and tell me about your “tough” moments.