Pardon Me, Sir, Is That Your Chattanooga Boo-Boo?

I accidentally qualified.

At seventy years old.

Without training.

Without stretching.

And certainly without medical clearance from anyone who cared about me.

My wife, Sherry Martin, our dear friends Guy Caffey and Classy Jo Cooper, and I departed Guntersville on a pontoon boat Saturday morning bound for Chattanooga by way of the Tennessee River.

Just four grown adults looking for sunshine, river air, good company, and maybe a decent supper that didn’t come through a drive-thru window.

And if you’ve never traveled that stretch of the Tennessee River, you owe yourself the trip.

Tennessee is beautiful.

Alabama is beautiful.

Those two states look like twin masterpieces God painted side-by-side when He was feeling especially generous with the scenery.

And I say that as a proud son of the great state of Michigan, which also knows a thing or two about gorgeous water and God showing off.

Now, what we did not know was that we were about to dock our humble pontoon boat directly into the middle of one of the fittest gatherings of human beings ever assembled.

There we came floating in from the river like four confused vacationers with coolers, overnight bags, sunscreen, and absolutely no visible abdominal muscles…

right into the middle of Ironman weekend.

Which honestly felt a little like accidentally parking a riding lawn mower at Daytona.

We arrived in Chattanooga around four o’clock Saturday afternoon.

That’s when we discovered downtown had already transformed into Ironman headquarters.

Athletes everywhere.

Bicycles engineered by NASA.

People jogging voluntarily.

Folks wearing enough compression fabric to launch a weather balloon.

And because the riverfront boulevard had already been blocked off in preparation for Sunday’s race, Uber couldn’t reach the dock area.

Which meant the four of us suddenly found ourselves hauling luggage, coolers, overnight bags, and assorted travel cargo two uphill city blocks through downtown Chattanooga like oxygen-starved Sherpas attempting to summit Everest carrying beach equipment, snacks, and deeply misplaced confidence.

And just like that…

we accidentally completed the marathon portion of the Ironman.

The Senior Citizen Cycling Division

Transportation-wise, we also completed the cycling portion.

At our age, Uber is simply senior-assisted bicycling.

I’m prepared to defend that position before any athletic commission willing to hear the case.

Frankly, if battery-powered bicycles count, then a Toyota Camry and an exhausted Uber driver ought to at least qualify us for the amateur division.

Different Divisions of Athleticism

Now, in fairness, there were very different athletic divisions represented on this trip.

Guy Caffey and Classy Jo Cooper are those mysterious people who voluntarily wake up at 4:30 every morning to work out, jog, stretch, hydrate, organize things, or possibly hunt gophers before sunrise.

I’m honestly not sure what all happens before daylight over at their house, but discipline is definitely involved.

These are not amateurs.

These are seasoned professionals.

Old river hands.

Efficient travelers.

They packed what can only be described as tactical daypacks so compact they might as well have been fashionable fanny packs.

Meanwhile, I was burdened with enough luggage that I was moving with the speed and grace of a hard-hat diver wearing weighted boots, trying to weld something at the dark bottom of the ocean.

And my lovely wife, Sherry, bless her heart, had more bags than Detective Elsbeth arriving for a weekend conference on organized clutter.

So let’s be fair about the physical conditioning involved here.

Guy and Classy were operating at a level best described as “active senior special forces.”

Sherry and I were more “enthusiastic recreational participants.”

Sunday Morning: Official Course Participation

Now here’s where our accidental Ironman qualifications became fully official.

The next morning, we returned downtown to board our pontoon for the trip back to Guntersville.

But by then, the Ironman competition was fully underway.

Our Uber had to drop us at the nearest possible access point because much of the downtown riverfront remained closed for the race.

And the only way to reach our boat was to cross the actual transition route where swimmers emerged from the river and sprinted uphill toward their bicycles.

Race officials controlled the crossing point.

You could only cross between runners.

And when they waved you through, you didn’t casually stroll.

You moved.

Fast.

So yes, for several glorious and medically questionable moments, all four of us actually ran across an official segment of the Ironman course.

That absolutely counts.

I don’t care what anybody says.

And when race officials yelled “GO!” and waved pedestrians across, Guy Caffey and Classy Jo Cooper launched forward like gazelles spotting a cheetah.

Gone.

Instantly.

Although aged as gracefully as a fine wine, those two can absolutely move when properly motivated.

Meanwhile, I lumbered behind them with all the confidence of a man who had slightly overestimated both his balance and his athleticism.

And roughly one hundred yards short of the dock entrance…

came my personal contribution to the event.

The Chattanooga Boo-Boo

Somewhere in the middle of the sea of people, excitement, cheering, movement, and confusion, I stepped into a depression in the sidewalk where turf was apparently supposed to be, and the toe of my shoe caught the raised edge of the concrete.

That was all it took.

One awkward step later, gravity and I entered into a very public disagreement.

Not a little stumble either.

This was a full-grown-man-meets-concrete negotiation.

The kind of fall where nearby strangers immediately make the face.

You know the face.

That look that says:

“Ohhhhhh… that gentleman has hit the earth with authority.”

Guy, Classy Jo, and Sherry were already yards ahead of me, moving through the crowd with purpose, while the noise of cheering spectators and race excitement completely disguised my sudden and rather undignified demise.

They had no idea we were experiencing a full-fledged “man down” situation until I reappeared a few minutes later looking battered, bruised, dusty, crooked, and considerably less athletic than when we started.

To be fair, I probably looked like a Civil War reenactor who had lost an argument with a mule.

And yet what happened next honestly moved me more than the injury itself.

People rushed toward me immediately.

Hands reaching down.

Voices filled with concern.

One gentleman retrieved my phone.

Another returned my money clip.

Someone handed me my pocketknife.

A kind lady straightened my glasses while another good Samaritan rescued my rather handsome South American Gaucho-style straw bolero hat before Chattanooga traffic claimed it permanently.

Several people helped me back to my feet.

Then they helped reposition my duffle bag and beach cooler onto my shoulders like a NASCAR pit crew servicing an injured walrus.

Others carefully checked the abrasion on my cheek and leg while strongly suggesting that perhaps I should consider sitting down somewhere for a while instead of continuing my expedition through downtown Chattanooga like wounded frontier explorer Daniel Boone late for a dinner reservation.

And I’ll tell on myself here: I was as startled by the outpouring of care as I was when my cheek hit the sidewalk.

Not because kindness should surprise us.

But because somewhere along the way, many of us quietly lowered our expectations of one another.

We got used to noise.

Division.

Anger.

Distance.

And then suddenly, there on a crowded Chattanooga sidewalk, humanity showed up all at once.

Instantly.

Naturally.

Without politics.

Without performance.

Without hesitation.

Just decent people helping another person who had unexpectedly discovered gravity still works at age seventy.

Frankly, they only begrudgingly allowed me to continue because I explained—with the urgency of a man searching desperately for a restroom at Buc-ee’s—that I had to catch a boat waiting at the dock.

And somehow, they trusted me enough to wobble onward.

That realization will stay with me long after the fracture heals.

Because maybe that’s part of the strange beauty of life.

Sometimes you head off for a relaxing boat ride and accidentally discover both the hardness of concrete and the softness of humanity in the exact same afternoon.

That, my friends, is the glorious intersection of “stuff happens” and “people still care.”

The Swim Portion of Our Imaginary Triathlon

After I regained what little dignity remained available to me, we finally made it down to the docks and boarded the pontoon.

And shortly thereafter, while departing Chattanooga, we were still on the water at the same time the final Ironman swimmers were completing their river swim.

So technically—and I believe very persuasively—we completed the swim segment as well.

Granted, ours involved a pontoon boat equipped with shade, seating, snacks, and propeller assistance.

But at our age, I believe prop-assisted participation should be fully authorized.

Therefore, by our completely unreasonable, self-serving, wildly exaggerated interpretation of athletic standards:

We completed the marathon.

We completed the cycling event.

We completed the swim.

Poorly.

Unofficially.

Accidentally.

But completely.

So yes, medals are now appropriate.

Not gold medals necessarily.

More like participation medals with ibuprofen attached to the ribbon and Bengay tucked into the swag bag.

Recovery Operations

Once I got back to the boat, our little unregistered Ironman team shifted immediately into recovery operations.

Guy stayed calm and steady, the way old friends do when life suddenly stops cooperating.

Classy Jo Cooper somehow produced ice within thirty seconds like she had trained her entire life for riverfront orthopedic emergencies.

And my wife, Sherry Martin, immediately went into caregiver mode.

She fashioned a sling, checked on me constantly, kept ice on the injury, made sure I slowed down long enough to assess the situation, and has absolutely doted on me ever since.

And Sherry deserves high praise for her kindness and attentiveness to my needs.

Because genuine love reveals itself most clearly in difficult moments.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

But quietly, faithfully, patiently, and without hesitation.

Her generosity of love and support for her wounded partner never wavered from the moment I hit the pavement until we safely made it home.

And I can tell you this plainly:

A man is richly blessed when the person beside him responds to hardship not with frustration, but with compassion, steadiness, humor, grace, and unwavering care.

Because when life knocks you down—and eventually it will—the real blessing is often found in the people who quietly kneel beside you and help you stand back up again.

The Ride Home

We rode five hours back toward Guntersville with me sitting there bruised, swollen, sore, and reflecting on how strange and wonderful life can be.

You set out expecting one story.

Life hands you another.

Sometimes you get smooth water.

Sometimes you get concrete.

Sometimes you get both in the same afternoon.

But as we watched the sunset ahead of us on that long ride back toward Guntersville, I realized I was leaving our adventure not with remorse, but with gratitude.

Gratitude for the laughter.

Gratitude for the friendship we shared.

Gratitude for a beautiful river, a memorable trip, and a story that somehow managed to include pontoon boats, Ironman athletes, emergency slings, sidewalk acrobatics, and enough ibuprofen to qualify as a sponsorship.

But more than anything, gratitude for the extraordinary kindness and compassion I had unexpectedly received from complete strangers and dear friends alike.

That kind of humanity leaves a mark on a person.

And long after the bruises fade and the fracture heals, I suspect this memory will remain.

Not because it was perfect.

Not because it was painless.

But because it was real.

Messy.

Funny.

Unexpected.

Human.

And in the end, when I look back on the truly rich days of my life, I believe this one will be banked among them.

The McGrath Way

I wrestled in high school, and I was never pinned.

Not once.

Not even in practice.

Now, I lost matches early in my wrestling years. That was part of learning.

But wrestling, while individual in competition, is still deeply a team sport.

And when you got pinned, it cost your team extra points.

So even if you were losing—and sometimes badly—quitting while flat on your back simply was not an option.

You fought.

You resisted.

You survived the round.

You got back up.

That lesson stayed with me.

And it still applies.

Because you cannot keep Rick McGrath on the mat.

The man is going to stand back up and keep moving forward.

There’s no quit in Rick McGrath.

And frankly, that’s the same spirit we bring to every project at McGrath Floor & Design.

A lot of people treat this business like it’s a sprint to the bank.

We don’t.

At McGrath Floor & Design, we believe in getting to the finish line with you.

Because when the going gets tough, the tough get going.

Back at work.
One more adventure in the books.

Are you ready for yours?

Let us help you create your beautiful spaces.

Through the surprises.
Through the decisions.
Through the bumps in the road.
And yes… occasionally the bumps underfoot.

When there’s trouble underfoot, nonetheless, we’ll find our footing, keep moving forward, and remain your go-to guys.

You can always rely on McGrath Floor & Design.