Inside SEAL Team Six(21)

“Then I can come back and start BUD/S?”

“Yes. Don’t give up hope.”

I returned to Camp Pendleton and completed the five-week Field Medical Service School with flying colors. In fact, I scored the highest of all the students and was named the top graduate.

But when I went to the Navy admin officer and requested orders to go to BUD/S, he told me, “Not after we’ve just invested all this time and training in you. You’ve got to complete an assignment with the Marines first.”

The Navy sent me to Okinawa, Japan, where I treated Marines who were hurt in training, and had a blast. The Marines actually flew me all over Asia to compete in races—including the Western Pacific Cross Country Championship and the Marine Corps marathon in DC—all on their dime. I was running marathon after marathon now, averaging close to one a month and using each one as training for the next.

Among the races I competed in was the third Hawaiian Ironman in February of 1981. I arrived in Oahu from Okinawa carrying my $109 Motobecane in a box.

Around the baggage-claim area stood these incredibly fit and muscular athletes. One cut and tanned guy with blond hair spotted me carrying my bike and looked at me as though he were thinking, Who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?

Even though I was a veteran Ironman, I felt intimidated and out of place.

The next morning, I and the other 537 athletes who had entered in the race lined up to be inspected and weighed. Race officials were worried about people getting too dehydrated, so they told us that we would be weighed twice during the race, and anyone who lost more than 10 percent of his body weight would not be allowed to continue.

I was more concerned about the waves I saw crashing over the seawall and washing across the street. I started to feel small and wanted to return home.

Then the cocky blond guy I’d seen at the airport came over and stood in front of me with a beautiful lime-green five-thousand-dollar Bianchi bike by his side.

He asked loudly, “Are you in this race?”

“Yup.”

He pointed at my bike. “What’s that?”

“It’s a Motobecane.”

“A Motobecane. No shit. What do you have on it?” he asked with a big smirk on his face.

“It is what you see. I’ve got nothing special on it.”

He said, “My pedals are worth more than your bike. They’re made of titanium.”

“Whatever.”

“So that’s a Motobecane, huh?”

When the starter gun sounded, we all ran into the water. I watched the blond guy swim past me.

But no way I was giving up.

I fought through the waves, swallowed water a couple of times, but completed the swimming section without too much difficulty. Then I climbed on my bike. As soon as I started pedaling, something lit up inside me.

Feeling a burst of energy and confidence, I started passing people and quickly moved from 175th place to 150th.

I said to myself, I’ve done a great deal of training and have run thirty marathons in thirty-six months. There’s no reason in the world I can’t place near the front. I passed more riders—149th, 148th, 147th, 146th—then spotted the ripped blond guy on the green Bianchi ahead. I picked up speed and blew past him, then looked back and said, “So that’s a Bianchi, huh?”

I knew that Gordon Haller, the winner of the first Ironman, had completed the course in eleven hours and forty-four minutes. It was my goal to break his record.

I was in 110th place and I was thinking, Only a hundred and nine more to go.

About twenty miles away from the end of the biking section, I saw this helicopter hovering ahead. Crowds of people were cheering. News cameras were filming one of the riders.

When he came into view, I read the name on the back of his shorts.

“Gordon Haller. Holy shit!”

I passed him, thinking, This is amazing! I’m about to pass the champ!

I finished the bike portion, pulled off my bike shoes, laced up my running shoes, and took off like I was on fire. A couple of guys I passed running up the first hill, shouted at me, “Hey, dude, you’d better slow down. You’ve got a whole marathon ahead of you.”

They had no idea what was burning inside me.

Hours later, now in thirty-seventh place and nearing the finish line, I noticed the helicopter approaching me from behind. Someone in the crowd shouted, “Watch out, man, the champ’s after you and he’s a runner!”

I turned and saw Gordon Haller behind me on my right.

He was starting to pass me, but I picked up speed. Then he picked up speed.

We made a right-hand turn together and I saw the finish line ahead. Now we were both running as fast as we could, completing the last two miles doing better than six and a half minutes per mile.