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 August 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.

The airline gal said, "But you have to box your bike." "Huh?" It never even dawned on me.

We didn't have any tools, and my dad had left, but the baggage handlers helped out. It was very frenetic. We ended up taking pedals off, rotating handlebars; they stuck it in some plastic bag. It was wild.

We arrived at night so the whole drive to the hotel was in the dark. We woke up at the Kona Lagoonit has been closed for years now, I swear, it's not because of us. I was there only three days before the race, not understanding that I should have been there much earlier.

I was overwhelmed and intimidated because of my perceptions. Everybody was fit. Most competitors were from the West Coast. They all had suntans. I had never seen Lycra before. Here I was going to do the whole event in my running shoes, my two-tone green-with-yellow-ribbing gym shorts, and an Izod tennis shirt because I could put the collar up and cover my neck a little bit from the sun. That was what I was going to wear until I saw everybody else.

I got on the phone. There were maybe two bike shops in the areaKona has changed drastically in twenty years. None of them had any bike clothes. I called a bike store on the other side of the island in Hilo, and they had one pair of wool bike shorts left. I had them mailed overnight to Kona. I sat in the receiving area of the hotel waiting for the truck to come. As race day approached, my anxiety climbed. The day before I was really scared because now there wasn't a buffer day between. Tomorrow was the day. I was lying in bed saying, 'I'm sick. I can't swim. I don't want to be here. I can't do the race.' My friends have finally made me realize I've done that every year for twenty years. I wake up and suddenly I have a psychosomatic ache or pain. There are pictures of me with ice on my neck and shoulder. I just knew I had a pinched nerve. I couldn't even turn my head. I mean, extreme pain. I would say, "It isn't in my head, godammit, look at me." Race morning I'm always fine. Sometimes I'm a very slow learner, but now I understand and really believe in an ability to store those stupid things in our tissues.

Race morning I was petrified. It was this big, unknown adventure and this long day, but once the gun went off, I settled in. I wasn't afraid of the water at all. Even to this day, one of the joys for me when I've gone back is to swim by myself, way out into that bay, take my goggles off, look at the mountain, and appreciate this tiny little spot in this big, big world. That's always been a precious thing for me to do every yearI love that water and that place.

The bike was interesting because I had never been on a bike that long. My butt and the bottoms of my feet, especially biking with running shoes, felt like somebody was jabbing them with ice picks. My bike time was a little over seven hours. Even as I became fitter and knew what I was doing and had better equipment, I only improved my bike split by thirty to forty-five minutes the following years.

They scared us to death about dehydration. It seemed the race had as many aid stations as they do now, certainly not as massive, but we carried a lot of our own food. I had one of those old-fashioned bags, the ones that would clip on the back with two little hooks. I moved it around to the front somehow so I could have access to enough food to feed the entire number of participants out there. I had three peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, oranges, I think even a banana or two, some candy. I packed for war.

We had to get off the bike to be weighed about three times during the bike course. If we lost more than seven percent of our body weight, we would have been yanked. I had been scared so much about dehydration that I drank lots of replacement drink. Every time I got on the scale, I got heavier. I gained seven pounds by the end of the event. I felt like the doughboy. Eating, drinking, retaining everything.

I had never before biked and then run. After getting off the bike I had somebody rub my feet for a long time. I was notorious for taking forever to get out of the damn change tents. I think I spent twenty-five minutes in there.

I clearly remember telling myself, 'I will run this.' I started to run. 'Well, this certainly isn't going to work so I'll just run until I have to walk.' And then I kept running. But this was my thing and I had prepared for it.

On my way down Alii Drive back into town before the highway, my lower back was killing me. Flo was with me and we went into a fast-food place that is no longer there, and asked if anybody had aspirin. I got what I needed in there, but I'm not sure if it made me feel any better.

Back then the run turnaround was in the airport. That's how slow the island was. We could go in through the airport right down the airport drive, around the circle, and come back out. The airport was three little huts. Kona had one stoplight.

Near the end Flo kept yelling at me, "Pick it up. You're only five minutes behind." I was approaching town so I had five miles to go. "Pick it up, pick it up," she said. And I was going as fast as I could and I didn't care who was in front of me or how close they were. "Pick it uponly five minutes behind!" Finally I turned to her and said, "Fuck you."

Coming down Alii Drive I was just elated. I was ahead of where I thought I would be and happy the day was over and very happy to be able to shed the anxiety leading up to it. I think when something is new like that, no matter how bad it feels, you somehow put it in a positive place. I always forgot the misery very quickly and that's one reason I kept going back.

Finally I came across the finish line. I had changed out of the Izod into some T-shirt, had my green shorts on and my running shoes, everything was drenched. I ran the marathon in just over four hours. One of the volunteers approached me like he was going to have to hold me up. I was annoyed and said, "I'm fine. Get away, I'm fine."

I was third that year and I knew I was going to get a trophy. At the Kona Surf Hotel, which was the headquarters then, they kept the trophies in a glass case. Before the race I looked in there and said, "That is the ugliest thing I've ever seen." And I won itthird place. On the way home I walked through the airport holding my trophy like I was the cat's meow. I wouldn't be caught dead doing that now. That ugly thing became very, very precious. Now I think it's one of the finest trophies I've ever seen. It's one I will relish for a very long time.

When I finished it became very clear to me, right away, that I needed to go back. There was more to explore. But I didn't go into it with a statement of, 'I'm only doing this once,' or, 'I'm going to do this for a long time.' I just went and I did it. I had no agenda. This whole twenty thing was never planned. There was an ornery part of me that almost dropped at nineteen just because it's a pissy number. My friends were saying, "You can't stop at nineteen." "Well, yes I can. You go do twenty if you want."

Throughout those twenty years and my entire life really, sport has been the platform for my change and growth. To me ironman is a level playing field in terms of the physical. Yes, some of us are very slow, and it's people like us who make people fast, but we're all prepared in our own way. But what is very different is who we are and how we handle the obstacles that come our way. Yes, it sucks and yes, it hurts, but how do you get to the other side of what is put in front of you? I think some of the tough times in these events have made me realize my boundaries. My limitations are so beyond what I thought they were. I've learned patience. And I've learned to appreciate more. That's why I ask people, "Were you happy with how you did in the event because I don't care about the times. Were you happy? Was it satisfying?" I think when you go back to numbers and times and places, you set yourself up to fail or to feel like a loser because chances are whatever plans you lay out, they're not going to play out that way. I've seen so many people train so hard and then they piss the whole experience away because it wasn't what they wanted to do. It's not how fast or how slow, it's just, are you present? Are you appreciating the fact that you have a healthy body that gives you the privilege of doing something like this? I am very appreciative because I also know it can turn on a dime -- on a dime.

It has been wonderful to have done ironman as many times as I did, but I've found it is just as wonderful to not have it on my mind anymore. I was reading something in USA Today about a woman who was going to her first one and blah, blah, blah, and at the end of the article it said she had gotten in through the lottery, and I went, 'Whoa. That lottery came and went. I never even thought about entering.' Those who are obsessive about it can't believe it's really that way for me now, but it is. Other thingstime for other things. Don't you think twenty is enough?

Lyn recently moved to a country home where she is constantly entertained with a parade of wildlife. She has a private practice in massage therapy and teaches at the Baltimore School of Massage. Without another ironman to train for, she fills her time with gardening, birdwatching, and, as always, staying fit.