Growing up, I lived in a neighborhood that might best be described as ...colorful.   My friends ran the gamut from strange to out-n-out demented. Needless to say, I fit right in.
However, there was a boy that lived 6 or 7 houses away, who was ...certifiable.  I will call him Kenny.

Kenny was a few grades younger than I was.  Kenny was an only child; an excellent student, but with little discernable athletic or social skills.   He was what we would, today, refer to as a "nerd."

Regardless, Kenny did have a vivid fantasy life;  I don't know if there was ever a time when I saw Kenny without his cape.
Well, not a "cape" exactly. More of a bath towel tied around his neck.  Kenny made no apology for the fact that, when he grew up, his chosen occupation was "...Superman!"   Kenny fully intended to become the "Man of Steel."   Kenny spent hours practicing his "leap into the air;" typically from the top of his porch steps - perhaps 4 feet above the lawn.  He was known to swoop down on a bevy of neighborhood little girls, grab a Barbie doll from their midst, swing her around momentarily and then declare "...It's alright, ma'am! I've saved you! You're safe now!"  and then fly away again (...obviously disdaining a gushing "Thank You!" from the grateful citizenry).
When approached by other neighborhood kids, Kenny would momentarily strike a bodybuilder pose (...all 70 lbs of him), and then quickly fly away.
Kenny wore his "cape" both to and from school (...although I presume the teachers felt that young Kal-el should keep his identity secret during classroom hours).  Surprisingly, while my friends looked at Kenny askance, no one gave him any grief about it; we were each victims of our own foibles.

I am reminded of Kenny often as I plod feebly thru my own recovery.

During much of my workout, I listen (via ear buds) to an ever-growing catalog of "superhero" tunes that serve to motivate my inner superman.  Although I will expound on this, at some length, in a later missive, I will telegraph my own pathetic nerdiness with 3 simple words..."Gonna Fly Now."  Nuff said.

Yet most of the Triathlete community is hopelessly addicted to images of the heroic.  I remain convinced that, were it not for the negative wind resistance, many of my colleagues would wear capes.  

This is due, in no small part, to one man; Al Trautwig.

For the uninitiated, Al is "The Voice" behind NBC Sports' annual production of The Ironman World Championships from Kona, Hawaii.  In the beginning, it was Phil Liggot of ABC's Wide World of Sports, then a parade of voices including Pat O'Brien, Frank Gifford and Jim McKay (excellent commentators, one and all), but with the introduction of Trautwig (...and NBC's "over-the-top" production) Ironman has moved into the athletic equivalent to Wagnerian Opera.
Trautwig has the voice that God would have ...if God could afford a good voice coach.  He uses that voice to get away with the hokiest story lines and the purplest prose this side of Howard Cosell;  "...the Queen K highway can be a cruel mistress; crushing fragile dreams across her vast, jagged lava fields..."   But he pulls it off with a gravity that makes it sound absolutely Shakespearian.
Trautwig has done for the Ironman what John Facenda has done for NFL Films.  (And if you don't know John Facenda, you are probably an unwitting communist dupe...)
Al Trautwig takes an athletic event and turns it into a religious experience... especially for all of us wannabes watching at home.
Thanks to DVD's and DVR's, there is an entire subset of the population that has memorized these annual productions with the religious fervor of a Rockne pep talk or Gehrig's "Luckiest man on the face of the earth" farewell.  I have found myself at more than one venue where someone will begin to recite one of Trautwig's more memorable lines, and stumble, only to be corrected by many of those around him.

As I train, I train in the hopes that, when (...not "if") I cross that finish line, I am worthy of the accolades, that Al Trautwig will shine his vocal chords on me and place me on the athletic equivalent of Mt. Rushmore.

Until that time, you'll excuse me, I have to tie on my cape and practice jumping off the porch.