21 Inspiring Quotes from "The Obstacle is the Way" by Ryan Holiday to Turn Trials into Triumphs

If you haven't read this book yet, you should. Ryan Holiday deconstructs the basic, timeless principles behind stoic philosophy, first pioneered by thinkers like Seneca and Marcus Aurelius, into a practical guidebook for how to live life. Totally accessible and grounding, it's a book you'll likely go back to over and over again for inspiration. I have already.

Here are 21 of my favorite, inspiring quotes:

1. "You will come across obstacles in life - fair and unfair. And you will discover, time and time again, that what matters most is not what these obstacles are but how we see them, how we react to them, and whether we keep our composure. You will learn that this reaction determines how successful we will be in overcoming - or possibly thriving because of - them."

2. "Too often we react emotionally, get despondent, and lose our perspective. All that does is turn bad things into really bad things."

3. "...if we have our wits fully about us, we can step back and remember that situations, by themselves, cannot be good or bad. This is something - a judgement - that we, as human beings, bring to them with our perceptions."

4. "There is always a countermove..."

5. "We can't change the obstacles themselves - that part of the equation is set - but the power of perspective can change how the obstacles appear. How we approach, view, and contextualize an obstacle, and what we tell ourselves it means, determines how daunting and trying it will be to overcome."

6. "Where the head goes, the body follows."

7. "But every ounce of energy directed at things we can't actually influence is wasted - self-indulgent and self-destructive. So much power - ours, and other people's - is fritted away in this manner."

8. "Focus on the moment, not the monsters that may or may not be up ahead."

9. "When given an unfair task, some rightly see it as a chance to test what they're made of - to give it all they've got, knowing full well how difficult it will be to win. They see it as an opportunity because it is often in that desperate nothing-to-lose state that we are our most creative."

10. "No way around it: It's on you."

11. "...genius often really is just persistence in disguise."

12. "Stop looking for angels, and start looking for angles."

13. "Respect the craft and make something beautiful."

14. "How you do anything is how you can do everything."

15. "Just our best, that's it. Not the impossible. We must be willing to roll the dice and lose."

16. "True will is quiet humility, resilience, and flexibility; the other kind of will is weakness disguised by bluster and ambition."

17. "We protect our inner fortress so it may protect us."

18. "But there is always some good - even if only barely perceptible at first - contained within the bad. And we can find it and be cheerful because of it."

19. "Perseverance is something larger. It's the long game. It's about what happens not just in round one but in round two and every round after - and then the fight after that and the fight after that, until the end."

20. "Lend a hand to others. Be strong for them, and it will make you stronger."

21. "Behind mountains are more mountains...One does not overcome an obstacle to enter the land of no obstacles."

The Wheels Fall Off (Part 3 - Princeton 70.3 Race Report)

This is part 3 of 3 of a series on my race at IRONMAN 70.3 Princeton. Disclosure: I did not receive any form of compensation for mentioning certain products in this posting. 

Part 1: Getting to the Start Line
Part 2: On Pace

****

I dismount. My first steps off the bike are reassuring. The slight cramp sensations in my hamstrings from removing my feet from my cycling shoes are temporary. They faded for the time being just moments after they began 100 meters from the dismount line of the bike course. My calf, hugged by a black compression sleeve, feels normal as I dash to the opposite side of transition to rack my bike. Caution, however, still shields it from the violent force of a normal stride. When I reach my spot in transition, I quickly rack my bike, place my black, Specialized helmet on the handlebars, and insert my feet, one after the other, into a pair of socks, then into my running shoes. The elastic Xtenex laces in my running shoes make shoelace tying obsolete. I simply yank on the ends, and the series of small knots in the laces catch on the shoe eyelets at the exact right tightness.

I pass under the "Run Out" arch. The force incurred during each foot strike comes with a special delivery of confidence, sent directly to my brain. Each step provides a bit more then the previous. Only a few hundred meters into the run, I feel strong and energized. My pace gradually dips close to 6:15 per mile. 

I hit the first aid station. Prior to the race, I completely abandoned the thought of trying UCAN Superstarch in a running flask again. Did I not want to carry the flask? Was UCAN not effective? No and no. I knew I entered the race in a sub-optimal state of fitness. The previous six weeks, as I mentioned in Part 2, were a complete logistical nightmare. There was zero stability. Combine that with Princeton being my last race, wanting to have a good performance in front of my family, and the goal of qualifying for the 70.3 World Championships (which I significantly tempered once our moving calendar became clearer). I'm usually one who tries to strike the balance between health and performance. That got thrown out the window today. 

"Water and two cokes," I call out at the first aid station. I dump the first cup of water over my head and proceed through the buffet line of fuel source options to grab two cups of Coke. Water and Coke worked for me in my last half-Ironman in North Carolina where I placed 2nd in my age group. I stick to that same strategy, at first by choice, later by absolute necessity. 

I feel some tightness in my quads. I definitely pushed the pace on the bike, but never felt I was overly smashing the pedals. It's a similar sensation to the one I felt coming off the bike in North Carolina. With some quickly absorbed fuel early in the run, I figure the tightness will work itself out, just like it has in the past. 

Around the mile 2 mark I find out that's not going to be the case today. I ease up slightly, contemplating a quick stop to stretch, hoping it would help relieve the tightness. Wrong decision. Horrible decision. Both sets of quads seized up simultaneously. Cramps grab hold of each with a vise-like grip. I can't relax them. A loud howl exits my cringing face. Both are stuck in a contracted state. The pain is excruciating, like two knives that have stabbed each. Bent over, I use my thumb to apply as much pressure as possible to each thigh, slowly digging into the muscle to trigger its release. 

It's the most unpleasant and painful deep tissue massage I've ever had. Unfortunately, it wouldn't be the last one that day.

As I'm slowly loosening my thigh muscles, I hear fellow athletes offer words of encouragement as they run by. It's helpful, but I'm still annoyed with the ground I'm losing, and to one athlete in particular. All of a sudden I hear an audible jumble of words that I can't quite make out, but includes the word "bike." I look up, it's the fellow 25-29 age grouper I sparred with on the bike course. I insert my own version of the rest of his statement: "Shouldn't have gone so hard on the bike." 

It lights a match under me. After a minute or two, I finally work out the cramps to a point where I can resume running. My focus narrows to one goal: pass that one athlete. Seeing his stride as he passed me, I know I'm a much better runner. I just need to hold off these cramps for a little while longer. 

Not long after relief arrives in my quads, I feel a lingering, inevitable pain in my right calf. Instead of walking, which I told myself before the race that I would only do as a very last resort, I modified my stride to a less impactful gliding-like gait instead of my typical stride with more pronounced knee-drive and back-kick. Even so, I still manage to work my way further into the field of athletes ahead of me. 

A mile before the end of the first loop, marking the midway point, I'm within striking distance of my goal. He's been in my sights the previous three miles. I've slowly chipped away at his time advantage. We exit one of the park's trails and onto the main access road. I come up on his left, pausing for a few steps to run alongside him. I glance over, look directly at him, then accelerate slightly to pass him. I don't look back.

Barricades lining the road slowly come into few, draped with repeated logos of Training Peak, Tacx, TIMEX and other IRONMAN partners. My eyes dart back and forth to try and spot my family. They are standing along the right side of the road, somewhat spread out, to offer more smaller doses of encouragement rather than all at once. As I round the left turn to enter the second loop, I shoot a thumbs up sign to my wife and dad. I'm feeling okay.

Long before I made it to this point, I transformed the run course in my mind from a daunting 13.1 mile slog, to a series of one mile repeats. I focus only on running to the next aid station, located about one mile beyond the previous. When I think about the half-marathon in smaller segments, it seems much more manageable. "Just get to the next aid station," becomes my mantra. For a while, it works.

I pass through another aid station, taking water and Coke, which has become standard protocol. It's been five miles since the cramps struck like two lightning bolts. I'm still gliding along, and actually feel optimistic about holding off any more cramps. Just a few minutes after the thought, though, the cramps strike again. The agonizing pain once again shoots through my quads. They seize up. I yell. Once again, it's time to apply as much pressure as possible with my fingers to relax the contracted muscles. Under my grip, beneath the skin, I feel the lively flurry of out of control muscle spasms.

Frustration returns to my thoughts. Cardiovascularly I feel 100 percent fine. It's like my legs won't work how I want them too. They feel totally disconnected from how I'm mentally and aerobically feeling. "And all the people I just worked so hard to pass are now all passing me," I think to myself. It takes a few moments longer this time then the previous to work things out. But, I do. I'm moving again.

A mile and a half up the road, more cramps. Same story. I give up my goal of beating that one fellow age grouper, who since passed me for the second time. It's all about finishing now, however I can. The cramps would come with greater frequency during the second half of the run. I stop five times in all, including one right next to an aid station, and another less than a mile from the finish line. I don't care how often they come, though, I'm determined to run when I can, and finish the race on my terms, giving it ever ounce of mental and physical effort I have left in my body.

I pass the 12 mile sign. The finish feels within reach. I stop once more because of a cramp, just steps from my family. I'm sure they see the pure agony on my face. I grit my teeth, and with a grimace on my face, a limp in my gait, and my cousin running alongside me for the final half mile, I complete the most brutal and painful triathlon I've ever done. 

I cross the finish line with a brief moment of disappointment on my mind. I had ambitious expectations coming into this race, and my five hour and nine minute finish time didn't even come close to them. Instead of proceeding directly through the finish corral after the finish line, I take a few moments to myself, to reflect on the previous five hours, mostly the past hour of torture. The disappointment quickly fades, though, when I see my cousin's two young boys, one three and the other seven. I know perseverance in the face of adversity is a valuable lesson. I hope I played at least some role in helping them understand that lesson. And that's the "win" I choose to leave the race with. 

Run Split: 1:52:48

Finish Time: 5:09:01 (19th in 25-29 age group / 147 overall)  

****

Stuff happens. Life intervenes. Every race is not always going to be a personal best. Things will go wrong. Stress influences performance much more than we think. Did I have ambitious goals for the race? Absolutely. Do I wish I raced better? No question. Do I know I can race better? Heck yea. But, will there be another race? Yes. Did I learn something from the race? Hand down, without a doubt. Did I experience something during the race I've never experience before? Will these experiences make me a better athlete? A better coach? A better husband? A better person? Emphatically, yes. 

It makes me think of a quote from the movie Life as a House, "Sometimes things happen for a reason. Something bad to force something good." It's all about perspective and finding the good in everything we do and experience. I just finished reading an amazing book, The Obstacle is the Way (stay tuned for a new blog on it), and if anything captures how I feel looking back on the race it's this:

“There is no good or bad without us, there is only perception. There is the event itself and the story we tell ourselves about what it means.” 

My story of IRONMAN 70.3 Princeton is one of grit, persistence, and knowing I gave the race what I honestly and truthfully had on that day. I fought through pain. I raced with the unknown of how an injury would hold up, and it turned out okay. I toed the start line even when I could have easily backed out of the race, whether because of moving or injury. I learned something about myself that day. I explored an unknown part of me. I experienced something new and unforgettable in this magical, unpredictable, and sometimes unrelenting world of ours. 

And that's a win. And I'm grateful for it.

"You couldn't break me" - race report from the Princeton 300k bike ride

I'm sure you've heard of the saying, "when it rains, it pours." A classic line we've all used when bad things snowball after one another, one after the next. While caught in the storm, it's impossible to think beyond it. Will it ever get better? Of course the answer to that question is yes, but rarely does this thought cross our minds in the moment. We're too engrossed in the negative to think about the positive. But, it's this resilient sense of optimism -  that things will ultimately get better (and we'll be a better person for it) - carries us through.

****

I pulled myself up off the pavement. Now wet, I look down at my right leg to see blood seeping out of my knee and ankle. I pick up my bike and gingerly move to the shoulder of the road. A friend of mine, Jeremy, and I inspect the tires. Both seem fine. I quickly check the brake calipers to ensure they are in proper alignment. I gently pat the open wound on my knee with my new gloves. Just a couple days prior I contemplated not wearing any, but a friend convinced me otherwise. For $11 a the local bike shop, they've already exceeded their value, probably preventing another gash the the palm of the hand, which happened a few weeks ago (the result of not wearing gloves).

The only light shines from the headlamp strapped around my helmet. It's just after 4:30 in the morning. The sun hasn't come up yet. There is a distinct chill in the 45 degree air. Moisture still covered the pavement, a reminder of the heavy rain from the day before. "Perfect, and now I'm wet AND cold - not a good combination," I thought to myself. 

Just three minutes into the ride, I hit a water-filled pothole. In the darkness of the early morning hour, the water masking the appearance of a pothole, and my briefly glancing at the cue sheet and not keeping my eyes on the pavement ahead combined in some cruel act of conspiracy. I reached into my pocket to grab the cue sheet, and with only one hand on the handlebars, I didn't stand a chance. Thankfully, myself, my friend Jeremy, and his friend Ryan, weren't riding too fast after just embarking on the 300 kilometer bike ride in Princeton, New Jersey. 

I mount my bike, and we continue on, my focus heightened. The next 20 miles are slow moving, our pace hovering around 10 miles per hour. Anything above that is virtually impossible, mostly because our headlamps can't illuminate too far ahead of us. And with the result of hitting a pothole cautioning us, we slowly trudge on, eagerly awaiting the sun to finally appear over the horizon. 

My right foot and finger tips begin to lose feeling. The cool dawn air combine with the residual moisture from my crash to produce a numbing chill. I have much shorter patience for the sun than Jeremy and Ryan did. 

With the moon still clearly visible, the sky finally begins to lighten. We are almost 90 minutes into a ride that would test our physical endurance, mental resilience, cause two of us to drop out, and leave only one returning back to the Village Plaza parking lot back in Princeton after a nearly sixteen and a half hour day in the saddle. Here we go.

****

I woke up Friday morning and prepared to go to work like every other morning. But, what I encountered was an omen for things to come the following day. I put my small suitcase and bag of food in the back seat of the car. Next up, time to mount my bike on the bike rack. I stepped into the basement to fetch my bike and found myself standing in a quarter inch of water. The previous night brought some of the heaviest rain our area has had in some time. Flooding was never an issue prior to that Friday morning. And, of course, it just so happened to be the day I'm scheduled to travel for an event. 

Two hours and five towels later, I finally soaked up all of the standing water. My bad luck wouldn't stop there, though. I shifted the car into reverse, glancing at the clock: 3:05 PM. "Not bad," I thought to myself. "After a three-hour drive, that still leaves me plenty of time to wash my bike in preparation for tomorrow's ride, eat dinner, and get to bed at my normal 10PM bed time." 

The digital clock on the car dashboard read 6:30 PM. Instead of sitting in my cousin's house, preparing for the next day's ride, I stared ahead to a seemingly endless stream of red brake lights on Interstate 95. I remained optimistic, trying to convince myself this was the last patch of heavy traffic (it wasn't). Five hours and fifteen minutes later, I finally pull into the driveway at my cousin's house where I stayed the weekend. "Of course, on a day that began with misfortune, it would take me twice as long as normal to get here." 

I expedited my bike wash, mostly because it's nearly dark by now, and because I needed to eat dinner. It's 9:00 PM and I finally sit down to eat my sushi and seaweed salad. Sushi actually makes a decent pre-race meal. It has a good combination of carbohydrate (rice), protein (fish), fat (fish) and micronutrients (seaweed salad and nori wrap used to hold the sushi rolls together). 

Now, it's time to run through the checklist in my head to prepare for the next day's ride. Head- and rear-light on my bike: check. Mix of raw almonds, cashews and coconut flakes into a ziplock bag: check. Ditto for coconut oil: check. UCAN Superstarch into one water bottle: check. Second batch of Superstarch in a small flask to refill halfway through the ride: check. Spare tube, CO2, sunglass lenses, bike tool, and spare contact lenses in my saddle bag: check. Breakfast ready for the next morning (a small sweet potato, avocado, coconut flakes, and coffee with coconut oil): check. Outfit laid out for the next morning: check. 

I made myself a small glass of water mixed with Natural Calm magnesium. It's 10:15 PM. I set my alarm for 3:00 AM. Finally, it's time for bed. "What a day," I thought laying in bed. I had no idea what was in store for me in just a few short hours.

****

As the sun rose over the horizon, the course's elevation begins to rise at the same time. Our pace feels more normal now. It still isn't what any of us would consider difficult or taxing, but it's a significant jump from our almost sloth-like pace in the dark. The light provides a sense of comfort, of normalcy. I rarely, if ever, ride in the dark, making the pre-dawn hours that much more challenging. 

Our group of three turn into a shopping plaza - our first check point. This is the first of four more of these so-called "control points" interspersed throughout the 300 kilometer course. One of the ride organizers emerges from a bagel shop with a clipboard. I pass him my brevet card (essentially my passport), which he quickly signs and returns to me. He notes my time on the clipboard. "How's your knee?" he asks, noticing the dried blood on my right leg. I explain the story nonchalantly before using the restroom and remounting my bike. We still have a long way to go.

We still also trail all the other riders due to our 30 minute late start. But, the gap is narrowing. As we pulled into the control point, a group of three riders were leaving. It was encouraging to know we were making up ground.

Those first miles after the sun came up are some of the most enjoyable. Few cars, open roads, light. It felt as though it's just us, the road, and the beautiful countryside lining each side of us.

The course takes a noticible turn upwards. A total of six major climbs brake up the 300 kilometers, and mostly come during the middle 100 miles. Jeremy, Ryan and I ride on, methodically climbing the slow inclines and short, punchy ascents. The first major climb arrives in a familiar place in Califon, New Jersey. Growing up in the area I would drive this road up and down Schooley's Mountain countless times. I knew all the turns, the steep ascents, the short flats. This familiarity reassures me as we begin to climb. 

My focus narrows. It becomes entirely about the task at hand, turning the pedals over, keeping a solid cadence, and enjoying my surroundings. I remain in the saddle, never standing. I don't feel as though I need to. I begin to pull several hundred meters ahead of Jeremy and Ryan. I'm trying to conserve energy, but the climbing feels relatively easy. My quads feel strong, never taxed or burning. 

I spot a group of three riders ahead. It's a huge boost in confidence. Renewed energy shoots to my legs and I methodically pass them. We would get to know this group quite well throughout the day, leap-frogging back and forth over the next 80 miles. 

The sun is higher into the sky now, providing some much needed warmth. My damp cycling jersey and shorts are finally drying. Entering the climbing sections of the route also shifts my focus from how cold I felt an hour or so before to riding. The numbness in my fingers is finally gone. The descent down Schooley's Mountain is exhilarating. 

About five hours into the ride we spot a local deli ahead. We're low on water and could use a restroom break. The few moments out of the saddle provide a nice rest, mostly just a change in body position. A few hundred meters after leaving the deli, we come to a downhill and coast down. There was one problem, though. We can't find the next turn. According to Jeremy's bike computer we've covered the mileage indicated on the cue sheet from the last turn to this turn (and then some), but no street. We pull off to the side of the road and consult the always-trusted Google Maps on our phones. 

This wouldn't be the first time we miss a turn or need to stop to look at a map. All this, of course, tacking on valuable time and miles to our already long ride. We turn around, head back up the hill, and determine the unmarked road just before the deli we stopped at is the correct turn. "You've gotta be kidding me," we thought. There would be plenty more unmarked or poorly marked turns to come. I suppose deciphering these turns is part of the challenge?

We turn onto the main street in the rural town of Blairstown, New Jersey. Small, local boutique shops line the single stretch of business in an otherwise rural and dispersed town. The second control point is outside a small coffee shop. "Man, I wish I could sit here for a while and just drink coffee." It's an absolutely beautiful spring morning. Several other riders are also at the control point. We're certainly making progress overtaking some of the field. 

I take a few minutes to top off both water bottles, refill my bottle with my second batch of Superstarch, then dive into my plastic bags of goodies. I grab several hand-fulls of nuts and coconut flakes. With a spoon I got from inside the coffee shop, I eat a few tablespoons of coconut oil. The oil is beginning to warm ever so slightly, making it a bit tougher to get down without a slight wince. But, I stomach it, mostly because I know this is what will help fuel my body the rest of the day.  

The ride's toughest climb neared. It's a roughly 600 foot ascent through Jenny Jump State Forest. The scenery is incredible. Once again, time to float on the pedal and turn 'em over. My head and shoulders bob ever so slightly, rocking from side to side as I force the pedals down. The road steepens. I come out of the saddle, each pedal stroke reminding me of a similar motion made by my foot when I run up hills. I feel a sensation that I'm running on the pedals. 

I pull away from the group and reach the summit first. I encounter a secret control point. "So we keep people honest," the guy said. "There's a much flatter route through the park and we want to make sure riders don't avoid the climb." Makes sense to me. I top off my water as Jeremy and Ryan arrive shortly after. There is also a tire pump available, so I make sure my tires are well inflated. I had no idea this might actually have been a mistake, as it was downhill from here, both literally and figuratively. 

Descents are magical. You feel free. But, danger can strike. It did. I took the descent somewhat slow, only around 30 miles per hour, which is considerably less than what I could've gone given the steep grade. Less than a minute into the descent, I hear a "ssssss" coming from one of my tires. I've been lightly breaking the entire time, but start to break even more, attempting to come to a controlled stop. It didn't work. My front tire is gashed, the tube is flat, and the unstable wheel and forward momentum send me over the handlebars. With shoes still clipped into the pedals, my bike follows my body as I tumble forward.

Through some act of luck or skill, or a combination, I emerge from the crash with only a matching cut on my left knee to match the one on the ride. I landed mostly on my left shoulder, which also sustained a cut as did my side, both of which were covered by my long sleeve compression shirt under my cycling jersey. 

I pick up my bike and move to the side of the road. Jeremy and Ryan abruptly stop when they see I crashed. I inspect my bike. Aside from the gash in my front tire, and one of my two water bottles gone (it rolled down the hill somewhere) everything else looks fine. Thankfully, I lost the water bottle with just water and not my fuel. Flashes of Mirinda Carfrae from the 2012 Ironman World Championships came to mind when she lost a bottle of fuel on the bike course. She later bonked and missed her opportunity for a repeat.

The more important issue is where am I going to get a tire? I have a spare tube, but no tire. Same goes for Jeremy and Ryan. Another group of riders slows down when they see us, asking if we're okay. These are the same riders we passed climbing up Schooley's Mountain a few hours before. With all my bad luck thus far, a stroke of good luck. One of the riders has a new tire that he graciously gives to me. Without it, my day would likely be over. 

I finally assemble both the new tire and tube onto the wheel rim. Now, time to inflate with one of my CO2 cartridges. The tire inflates and seems ready to go. I put it back onto the front fork and secure it. Slowly, we resume our descent. But, now I feel (and hear) my tire rubbing against my brake calipers. The noise is a pronounced thud with every revolution of the wheel. I stop again and inspect the tire. Sure enough, there's a small bubble in the tire right near the valve stem. 

Off the bike I go. I deflate the tube then readjust the tire, making sure it sits smoothly along the rim. I use my last CO2 to re-inflate the tire. "This better be it," I thought to myself. It wasn't.

My confidence and speed slowly increase the farther I travel. Once I feel my tire is okay, I turn my attention back to actually riding. 

Twenty-five minutes or so pass and my rear tire seems low. I look down. It's low. I dismount my bike, push down on the tire with my thumb. Sure enough, the tire is losing pressure. There's only one conclusion at this point, I need to change out the rear tube. 

Thankfully it's just the tube, but my motivation is almost entirely gone. I feel deflated, like I'm in a fight and this flat is the knock out punch. In my head I contemplate dropping out. I even say out loud, "I feel like just bagging it." Thanks to an extra CO2 from Ryan and spare tube (and extra assistance) from Jeremy, I fix the wheel. My hands are now covered in chain grease. Some even found its way onto my legs. I didn't really care how I looked though. I'm able to carry on.

We resume riding. The thing pulling me out of my abyss of doubt is knowing I'll see a few friendly faces (my parents) at the top of the upcoming climb up Schooley's Mountain in a few miles. Once again, I attack the climb. Not wanting to break the perfect rhythm produced by each pedal stroke, I focus on maintaining it. I once again leap-frog the group of four riders we must've passed three times by now. Each time, falling back behind them again after something happens. I hope this will be the final pass. I beat everyone up the climb.

****

The taste of sweet potato is blistful. After a few short bursts out of the saddle to make it up the climb, I saw my Dad's pick-up truck parked on the side of the road at the crest of the hill. Waiting for me in the cooler and bag of goodies is a warm sweet potato in tin foil. I grab for the jar of almond butter and dig myself a heaping scoop. Once again, I scoop of handful of coconut flakes and cashews from the zip lock bag tucked away in my cycling jersey pocket. The pit stock couldn't come at a better time.

Back in my hometown of Long Valley, I draw energy from the familiar roads and landmarks. We pass the historic General Store and the little white house immediately adjacent to it. The sight of both brings back memories of when my family lived there. I wonder if the General Store still sells penny candy, a treat my brother and I probably consumed far too often. Immediately after passing both, we turn right at the wood-carved eagle on the corner of Flocktown Road. I remember back to when the eagle was just a regular, old tree. 

The descent down Schooley's Mountain is fast and fun. I know every turn coming down Naughright Road from driving it on an almost daily basis. It's an entirely different sensation going down the mountain on a bike though. After seriously contemplating dropping out of the ride just a couple hours ago, I'm glad I didn't. This is why I didn't. The adrenaline rush of this is well worth it. 

****

Lightning strikes again. It isn't me this time, but one of my fellow riders. After the descent down the mountain, the course turns onto a slightly rolling West Mill Road. The cue sheet tells us we'll be on this road for several miles until we get to the next town over, Califon. I figure it's a good opportunity to put my head down and get a few solid intervals in. I pass through a really rough stretch of road. The potholes are like landmines. Once you avoid one, your attention immediately shifts to avoiding the next. "I don't remember this road being so bad," I thought to myself.

I glance back and don't see Ryan and Jeremy. I slow up for several minutes. Nothing. I get nervous. "I hope nothing happened." I stop off on the side of the road and hop off my bike. I call Jeremy. The news isn't good.

Ryan couldn't avoid one of the landmines. On one of the slight downhills he hit a pothole, catapulting him off his bike. "He cracked his helmet and is feeling pretty out of it," Jeremy tells me. "He wants to continue, but I don't think that's a good idea. I'm sure he has a concussion." 

Ryan and Jeremy drop out. Thankfully, this all happened in Long Valley, just a short drive away from my parents house. They graciously pick the two of them up to drive them back to Princeton, since they plan to drive there anyway to meet me at the finish.

I feel conflicting emotions as I continue on solo. My mind drifts off thinking about Ryan's crash, hoping it wasn't too serious and that he'll be okay. Was I somehow to blame because I pushed too hard a pace? As each negative, distracting thought pops into my head, I try to park it somewhere else. I have a solid 60 or so miles left, and I need to focus. This isn't going to be a walk in the park. 

At the same time, I did feel somewhat liberated. I do almost all of my training alone. The isolation is empowering to me. I'm hoping to feed off that mentality the rest of the way. It's now 10 miles to the final rest stop. That's my goal. I don't think about the 40 or so miles after this last opportunity to throw down a few handfuls of real food. 

I make the left turn into the park entrance and coast down a small downhill to the parking area. I notice a few familiar faces waiting to greet me. Before going back to Princeton, my parents, Jeremy, and Ryan welcomed me as I dismounted my bike, hopefully for the final time before the finish. I'm in heaven. I take heaping scoops of almond butter and plop them onto each bite of a banana. I eat more coconut. I grab a handful of individually wrapped pieces of 85% dark chocolate and put them into a ziplock bag, the one that was once filled with nuts and coconut. This is my treat at the end. I stash another banana in my jersey pocket just in case. I contemplate handing off my high-viz reflective vest to my parents because it's taking up valuable room in my pocket. I think twice and keep it just to be safe. The goal is to arrive in Princeton before dark, but my watch reads 5:45PM. That's going to be a tall order. It's doable, but I'd bet on it only on fresher legs.

Sitting on a bench, I struggle to muster the energy to continue. What's the point? My two buddies are out of the ride. All I can think about is how nice it would be to sit here in the sun and continue to stuff my face with food. I've burned well over 10,000 calories by this point. "If I can't make it up this hill, I'm coming back," I joked. The small incline was maybe 25 feet.

I say goodbye to everyone and get back on my bike. I'm ready to go. I feel a renewed sense of urgency and energy. I take it slow down the final big descent to avoid all the potholes. They seemingly fill the entire road. Some patches don't have a clear path anywhere. I ease to a gentle roll through those stretches. 

The final miles are a net downhill. In my head I think I've done all the hard work already. Almost all of the more than 10,000 feet of climbing are behind me. I finally hit some decent road surface, and traffic is almost non-existent. I put my head down, tuck into my aero position, and hammer away. I sense a car slowly moving at my pace. I glance back. It's my parents following me. Before parting ways not too long ago, they said they would follow me for a few miles just to make sure I made it safely through the final rough patches of road. Having a car following me for a few minutes is reassuring. 

Not too long into their following me, they slowly pass me and speed off into the distance. They are going to drop off Ryan and Jeremy. I'm alone again. But this time my head is in a much different place than a couple hours ago. I feel as though I'm just a few miles into the ride, rather than 150. I'm also motivated by the fear of darkness. "I really don't want to ride in the dark again," I thought to myself. Just before leaving the last rest stop, while we were talking about the potential to be finishing in the dark, someone made a comment that I will be riding in the dark when I finish.

Challenge accepted.

It's a very simple mental game. I don't know how many times I've used it before. Our brains our hardwired this way. When someone tells you that you can't do something. You want it even more. Whoever made the comment unknowingly lit a fire under me. It sounds simple, but it's the motivation I draw from for the last 40 miles. 

I ride some of my best miles over that final stretch. The pain in my right knee is getting more apparent. Every pedal stroke it shoots out. It doesn't phase me too much. In fact, some part of me yearns for it. People talk a lot about a runner's high. The rush of endorphins that happens during running, generally after long bouts of chronic, repetitive movement. There's a slight pain aspect as well. I feel that. I feel myself in this euphoric state of flow.

I near the end of my cue sheet so I know I'm getting close. I didn't reach my goal of making it back before dark, but that's okay. Off by only 30 minutes or so. I round a turn and realize I'm just a few hundred meters to the finish. "Holy shit," I say to myself out loud. I enter the same parking lot I left 16 hours and 20 minutes earlier that same day, good for 7th place.

Slowing down, I pump my fist in the air one hard, single time as if to capture everything - everything - that happened over the past 36 hours and say, "you couldn't break me!!"

Bring on the rain. 

Timex Factory Team

The other day I received an email that truly made me happy. My wife can attest. She watched me jump around the house like a little kid.

I was accepted onto the Timex Factory Team. For the 2014 season, I'll join more than 300 other multisport and endurance athletes from across the country and some from around the world. 

Endurance sports, including triathlon, are highly individual pursuits. They are your goals, your training sessions and your finish times. No one else can claim them. 

But I've noticed one thing over the past few years. Triathlon and endurance sports have an incomparable sense of community. Is it the distance and our individual suffering that unites us together? Put a few triathletes in the same room and they'll be content for hours talking about race destinations, the last time they bonked, their training, or even the latest politics in the sport. I know I'm guilty of this.

This is why I'm so excited and grateful for the opportunity to join the Timex Factory Team. I'm looking forward to sharing my dedication and passion for the sport with my teammates. They will undoubtedly teach me a thing or two along the way.

2014 should be a great year!