“The Road to Kona goes through here” is my favorite pre-race/pre-workout mantra. No matter where I find myself in the pool at ungodly hours or on winding roads with home nowhere within sight and nobody to support me, my life feels like it is supposed to be precisely occupying that particular space in time. I am sure you all know what I mean.

So could that road also take me to Myrtle Beach, home of retired golfers in Kelly-green sansabelt slacks and blue-haired old ladies, at 6:30 am on a chilly February morning?

You bet. It was the start line for the fifth annual Myrtle Beach Marathon, a brisk morning glide on the Atlantic coast, with full view of the ocean, seaside motels and Piggly Wiggly convenience stores. This race was an unforeseen stop along my path, but a necessary one nonetheless.

You see, ever since Ironman Florida last November, I’ve been constantly reminded of the word, ‘patience.’ Throughout 2001, I’ve been inspired by prospects of doing my first Ironman in a rookie miracle of never having previously run a marathon. Up until last season, I’ve been solely a recreational athlete, competing only twice—half marathons—over the course of the last five years.

	“	To recognize 'the wall' for what it is, and love its message, is one of the most liberating feelings in the world. So few of us have this honor to feel it, and for me, that's the greatest memory of any pursuit.”
		— Roy Asfar

“Heck, if Luc van Lierde can do it, so can I,” I constantly reminded myself as I overcame the universal training obstacles last year and eight prep races, which included sprints and half Ironmans. By November, it felt like a natural progression to nail down Ironman Florida within my goal of 11:30.

Well, it didn’t happen. It burned up on the run course, mile 18, because I decided that I felt good enough after the halfway point to try and shave almost minute off my pace for the second half of the marathon. Its okay to push our limits, but I went overboard. An overzealous move, a rookie mistake, I admit…I never would have let myself even plan for that before the race, but I let the rookie emotions overtake me. By as early as the next morning, I promised myself to never be that impulsive again.

“Its all business next time,” I wrote in my journal.

The night before the Myrtle Beach marathon, Don and I strategized my way through this race. “I am going to go for eights,” I told Don. He agreed that was the goal, no matter how good I felt. Eight minute miles, no heroes, no excuses.

To prepare, he also taught me a great trick of identifying the first half-mile mark the night before and make sure the start gun euphoria does not thrust me into the danger zone of unsustainable 7-minute miles.

Race morning, I spotted the half-mile mark and glanced at my watch, 3:57. “Great,” I told myself. “I own this pace and will nurture it for the entire race.”

It was a beautiful morning. We raced in the dark for the first half-hour of the race, and by 7 am the sun was appearing with a beautiful warming glow. A calm came over me, and suddenly, this rookie marathoner felt like he’s done this many times before. Despite the hiccup in Florida, despite the cold weather training with very little feedback as to my progress, despite my foot injury which taunted me during my marathon peaking weeks, it was finally going to happen. I was going to feel the fulfillment of being a finisher once again.

By mile 21, I held my 8-minute pace. And by mile 22 it slipped a little. I was curious, but confident I could rally.

Then a one-word thought came to me:

“Foot.”

Just when I thought I had it beat, a nagging foot injury resurfaced, and before I knew it my next mile clocked 10 minutes. Then my quads began to complain.

“So this is what ‘the Wall’ feels like,” I thought. In all my pre-Ironman races in 2001, I never felt this alien force persuading me to stop. And when this alien force first appeared in my life in Florida last November, I gave it what it wanted.

But not this time. Now, this returning thought is an unwanted guest at my party. I’ve got a race to finish, and a pace to honor. By the last two miles of the race, I returned to my 8 minute pace, even shaved a few seconds for good measure.

To recognize the wall for what it is, and love its message, is one of the most liberating feelings in the world. So few of us have this honor to feel it, and for me, that’s the greatest memory of any pursuit. On the racecourse or off.