Ironman Read Free Page A

I carry on the back of my bike, and within minutes was lost among the forest of weight machines and exercise equipment I hope will speed my metamorphosis into a true Ironman. (A true Ironman participates in the Hawaiian Ironman contest, where he—or she—swims about two-and-a-half miles, bikes a hundred, and runs a full marathon, but, hey, one step at a time.) Apart from two Schwarzenegger types taking turnsspotting each other in the free-weight area and a really sleek, powerful-looking girl doing battle with a rowing machine, who I was afraid to look at for reasons of self-esteem—and lust—the room was empty.
    I approached the wall of mirrors behind the free weights for a quick appraisal, locking my knees to flex the thighs, then rocking back on my heels to study the calves. Pretty good muscle definition in the ol’ legs if I do say so, Larry, but they still more resemble pipe cleaners than the well-oiled pistons I envision. I pulled up my sweatshirt to reveal my best feature, a truly symmetrical washboard stomach, then jerked the shirt quickly over my head, spun a one-eighty and flexed the lats, hoping for even a hint of that cobra look. A hint is what I saw. This is the body that led Camille Patterson to comment—loudly, at high noon in the student lunchroom—that I could tread water in a garden hose, and I have a feeling it’ll be a while before anyone calls me the Wedge. I checked back over my shoulder to be certain the girl on the rowing machine wasn’t getting aerobic, laughing at my performance.
    I focus my weight workouts on endurance, routinely setting each machine to the maximum weight at which I can squeeze out twelve repetitions, then drop it ten pounds, crank out maximum reps, drop another ten, max reps, until I’m pushing almost no weight and the particularmuscle I’m working on has turned to oatmeal. Between each machine I work an automatic StairMaster for five minutes at full speed. The entire workout takes an hour and ten minutes: upper body one day, legs the next. Today I popped a self-recorded, made-for-pain Bob Seger/Bruce Springsteen/Rod Stewart tape into my Walkman, set the volume to OED (Optimum Eardrum Damage), and focused on Redmond’s face with each and every repetition. Each time I believed I couldn’t eke out one more, I’d picture that peckerhead parked behind his smirk, accenting all three syllables of my name, and the resulting surge of power brought full extension. I should thank the man; he may single-handedly transform me into the behemoth I long to be.
    It’s interesting how he zeroed in on me after I quit football, Lar. You’d have thought he’d just forget about my scrawny butt and get on with his season, but he’s demanded that players caught talking to me run the hill after practice till they throw up. I’m told it’s called a Brewster when anyone lets up before the whistle. I guess fame comes at a price.
    When I climbed back onto my mountain bike outside the university weight room to head for my little brother’s day care, I could barely hold the front tire steady.
    I should probably back up a bit here, Larry, and bringyou up to speed on my brother Jordan, the human entrail. This is a kid who would have been better off raised by wolves, and he must know that, because he acts like he was. He’s a teeny kid, with blond hair that looks like each follicle was installed separately and at a slightly different angle than the rest. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Rod Stewart snuck into my mother’s bedroom nine months before Jordan rocketed onto the scene. (Come to think of it, I don’t know better, but that’s another story, or at least another chapter.)
    Anyway, picking up my brother from day care is an ordeal. I spend at least ten minutes listening to Mrs. Jackson tell me how far up the evolutionary scale he hasn’t made it, another ten getting a detailed roll call of other