In each monthly issue, Runner Triathlete News will publish one chapter from the new book "Becoming an Ironman." This month's story begins in the September 2001 issue of RTN.

To order your copy of "Becoming an Ironman: First Encounters with the Ultimate Endurance Event," send $23 per copy (plus $2.95 per order for shipping/handling) to Runner Triathlete News, P.O. Box 19909, Houston, TX 77224. Please allow 4-6 weeks for delivery.

I took a minute to describe it and they did indeed have what I was looking for.

"Please fit, please fit," I said as I approached my seat post. And it did. Everybody talks about how moods can change drastically in an Ironman. I went from utter despair to pure giddiness. In fact, I was in such a good mood I wanted to chat.

"I love Forster," I tell them. "You guys have a great little town and a great race."

"Oh, thank you very much, mate."

"What do you do?" I ask.

"I'm a car mechanic, actually."

"That's wonderful." I beamed at my new best friends.

"As a matter of fact, mate, if you take that wrench and turn it the other way, you'll get a little more leverage."

"How about that," I responded. "That's great."

We went back to talking about Forster and I was tightening, tightening, tightening, blabbing away, and I heard, 'Crack!' I had overtightened the bolt to the point of destroying it.

"You don't have a bolt, do you?" I asked the car mechanics.

"Sorry, mate, no bolts or nothing like that at all."

"Oh well. Thank you, very much. Here's your wrench."

"You poor guy. Good on you, mate, good on you."

I got back on my bike -- on my tricycle -- and began to wonder if I would be able to finish. I visualized cartilage shredding with each pedal stroke. It hurt more and more and I was going slower and slower.

The road is old and on the rough side. There were bumpy patches and that's really the only complaint you hear about that race because there's a constant stream of vibration.

My inept mechanic abilities surfaced again because my tri-bars were loose and rattled constantly on that bumpy road -- it was really annoying me. My knees were screaming; now I had this sound to deal with. I wondered if it was time to pull over for good. There's nothing wrong with being exhausted, maybe throwing up a couple of times, but doing permanent damage to your knees?

The aid stations kept me going. "Good on you matey, good on you!" There were little kids and moms and dads and they served Gatorade and all the other things athletes crave. But the one thing I couldn't figure out was when they said, "Biscuit! Would you like a biscuit, mate?"

Biscuit? I thought of Shredded Wheat biscuits. Who would want a biscuit? Or was it a dog biscuit? Finally I took one, and it turned out to be a chocolate chip cookie, homemade. From then on, I yelled, "Biscuit? Biscuit?"

I pulled over once again at an aid station near mile seventy and managed to snag some medical tape. I wrapped my tri-bars as tightly as I could and got back on my trike. I was sure I looked like a Shriner, with one of those goofy little motorcycles, and I felt like a chimpanzee.

My knees were hurting more than ever, and my bars were still rattling. The tape didn't do any good, and then the tape -- part of it broke off--unraveled and got stuck in my back wheel. So on top of the rattling, on top of the screaming knees, now I heard, "Fwip, fwip, fwip." I was sure I was in Hell. All I needed was someone to drip water drops on my head and shine a bright light in my eyes. It was no fun. I was one of the many triathletes inspired by the pain of Julie Moss crawling to the finish of her first Ironman--but now it didn't seem to be a motivating factor for me.

Fwip, fwip, rattle, rattle, squeak, squeak. This was worse than my first triathlon.

The Julie Moss thing hit Iowa in 1982 and shortly thereafter I finished my first half Ironman -- the All Iowa Triathlon. It was an Ironman distance and a half-Ironman distance because back then there was no such thing as a short-distance triathlon. Oh sure, in San Diego they did, but Iowa--we had all seen the Ironman on television and thought, 'Oh, that's a triathlon.' I did the half Ironman. Iowa, in July, is ninety percent humidity and above ninety degrees. It's not flat like Nebraska; it's actually rolling hills and torturous on a bike. There was one aid station at the halfway point of the ride. Three Cub Scouts and a den mother with a couple of bananas and some water. I rode my old Gitane that I bought when I was thirteen, and there I was riding it again at nineteen.

Fwip, fwip, rattle, rattle, squeak, squeak.

I was too lazy to get off my bike and take the tape out. I looked like a small, one-man band -- those guys with a drum, a horn and a cymbal. I provided a little on-course entertainment for everybody.

Even though it was the Julie Moss finish that inspired me to enter a triathlon, I did that half Ironman because my dad was a really good runner, one of the best masters runners in Iowa, and the house was clogged with trophies. Here I was, nineteen years old and my dad could kick my butt. I had run track in high school, but never farther than eight hundred meters. Dad was doing marathons, so for me, it was one of those father-son things, like, "I'll outdo him by doing this half Ironman." So that started it and now I was suffering away in Australia. With about twenty to thirty miles to go, I pulled up to a bike crew van and took the freakin' tape out of my back wheel. I felt no need to rush. I waddled over and said, "Do you guys have a bolt for this?" I pointed at my low-rider seat. They did, it was my dream of dreams.

As much of a relief as it was, I didn't know if I would be able to run two steps, or need to find an orthopedic surgeon in the medical tent. "Excuse me," I'd say, once I was in the transition area. "I have some meniscus tears here. Yeah, forget the IV, I just need some arthroscopy."

Now, there's a weird thing that happens on this course. These wonderful kids near town, whom I've seen several times throughout the day, have their evil twins out at the end of the bike course. In town they're waving and cheering; they're the best. It's cool to have these little guys cheering for you, but then later in the race -- maybe they're the same kids -- they started asking for stuff. "Can I have your water bottle? Can I have your sunglasses?" I'm in such a foul mood at this point. "No, you can't have my sunglasses! Get away from me! You little thugs!"

I came upon one of these gangs, completely irritated. I ripped off my tri-bars and threw them to the kids. "Here you go," I said. I had taken care of the fwipping, the rattling, and my knees, so my mood vastly improved as I got into town.

The townspeople were wonderful. They were all over the place cheering like mad, and drinking, too. I got into transition and put on my racing flats. As I ran out, I passed the finish line area, figuring the winners were out having a steak dinner.

My knees felt okay. Finishing seemed like a possibility now. It was warm; it was still summer -- the tail end of summer and the sun was still up -- and hot. It was a two-loop run course with some pretty solid hills. Because I'm a relatively good runner and was way back in the field when I started, I passed a lot of people. It wasn't long before I began to feel bad and beat up and tired. My pain in a marathon always starts near the twenty- mile mark, and here I was at ten miles feeling that way. It might as well have been one hundred the way I felt. I witnessed so many unfolding dramas around me -- someone clutching a cramp in their calf and wincing, somebody throwing up, somebody walking in raw misery, crying, others silent and completely focused.

Nobody talked. What happened on the run course was fascinating to see from the inside out. It was great for me to experience as an editor of Triathlete and as a fan of the sport -- to be in there and actually feel the distress, too. It was a quiet, shared misery that connected everybody, and it connects the sport as a whole. It brings to the surface an interesting state of mind, an altered state of consciousness. At that point in an ultra-endurance event, senses are extraordinarily alive and emotional blocks get rooted out and burned. I've never experienced such a hallucinating state in a marathon. Wherever you are on the measuring stick of time in your life, whatever sorts of things are happening, you can easily revisit those memories during an Ironman.

I got a glow stick at some point. I always kept at a jog but even as I got closer to the end, it seemed impossible in some ways -- it felt like it was going to be a week before I finished.

Finally, I was about a quarter of a mile out of town and could hear this Aussie throng chanting. A chill went through me. I turned onto the main street and had to do an L-turn. I could see the klieg lighting -- the sky was glowing. One hundred meters later I turned left and had the final two-hundred-meter stretch before me, fully carpeted with stands on either side, packed with people. The image transcended all my troubles. I had spent all day to get to that point. I slapped hands with people as I ran by and there was this woman, just drunk and singing and happy, telling me, "You're an Ironman! You're an Ironman!" It was thrilling and it made up for all the fwipping.

Crossing the finish line was more than I'd ever imagined even though I'd seen it so many times -- ever since 1982. It was tremendous. The first time around, maybe you think from your training that, 'Yeah, I could do this,' but you don't know it. You don't know it in your bones until you actually cross the finish line and when you do cross the finish line it's a life- altering experience because of the way you feel about yourself or see yourself, you know there's something you can do that you couldn't do before. You can feel something turn in a deep, deep way. Athletics may not be the most important thing in life, but it can have a huge impact.

I'll tell you, I've seen a lot of finish lines at a lot of races, but to me, I've never seen a finish like the one in Australia. Maybe that's because I was in the race. I'm sure that affects my opinion. Afterward, pro triathlete Greg Welch, who is such a great guy in this sport, came up to me -- just beaming -- and said, "Good on you, mate!" He knew I was editor of Triathlete, but now he knew I could really write about this sport. I mean, he always respected me as a person and was very kind to me, but now I had gained a new measure of respect in his eyes. I wasn't on the sidelines anymore. I was one of them.

T. J. returned to Ironman Australia in 1999 and avoided any fwipping, mastering the course in 11:59:13. In 2000 T. J. left Triathlete magazine to become a writer and editor in New York City. But he didn't leave triathlon -- he trained for and finished the Hawaii Ironman that year.