Fortune and Glory

Rock Martin is a geologist from Indiana, Pennsylvania who explores the human spirit through his writing. A Penn State graduate, he depicts life’s challenges where the main struggle lies within. Rock enjoys fitness, camping, and hiking with his wife and young son, finding inspiration in nature and resilience.

“There is no future, there is only now,” Sarah announced to Brian and me.

I glanced upward and read the Chinese lettering sprawled across the frayed cloth canopy adorned with dragons.

“I told you this place was exotic.” Her words were excited, but I couldn’t help the eye roll and the familiar sneer that stretched across my face.

When I was young, the road ahead was an adventure, full of twists and turns that could lead anywhere. But now? Decades later, I knew better. Life had become a straight shot, and all those dreams I once had continued to shrink in the distance.

“This place is supposed to be amazing!” Sarah gushed as we sat at a round table. “And the fortune cookies – I heard they have real fortunes! My cousin was here a few years ago, and her fortune read she’d get married at 27.”

“And?” Brian asked.

“She got married last year.”

“I don’t know if that’s cool or creepy.”

Sarah and Brian were still volleying small talk when the server appeared. Sarah raved about the moo goo gai pan, but I went with my usual sweet and sour chicken.

The food was good enough to be forgettable, and then the fortune cookies were placed in the middle of the table. For a moment, we all stared warily.

Brian cracked his open first. “Huh, it says a great opportunity awaits.” He frowned and turned the small paper over.

“Be grateful for what you don’t have.” Sarah also frowned as she paused. “Mike, what does yours say?”

I pulled the cookie from the package and snapped it open, pulling the slip of paper from between the half cookie in my hand. My eyes narrowed on the tiny wording.

August 16, 2026.

I gasped, the color draining from my face as Sarah leaned over.

“What is it?”

“Uh, nothing special. Just something about Monday being the best day of the week, or something,” I rambled.

“Huh. Well, at least the food was good.”

“Yeah. The food was good,” I replied absently, and then quickly looked at my phone. “Well, it’s been fun, but I gotta go.”

I dropped some money on the table and slipped away, ignoring their stares. Water splashed against my shoes as I dashed to my car.  I had to get back.

My apartment door swung open. I booted the dirty laundry out of the way, shook the water from my jacket, and began to pace. A stream of memories flashed through my mind, and the squeezing sensation in my chest made it harder to breathe. Inhaling sharply, I snatched my phone from my pocket and dialed.

“Mike?” Sarah answered.

“Hey, Sarah.”

“You OK? You left in a hurry.”

“Me? Yeah, I’m good. Just had a question. Were you serious earlier? At the restaurant?”

“About the moo goo gai pan?”

“No, the fortune, your cousin’s fortune. Was that true?”

“Yeah, I think.”

“You think?”

“Well, I guess she could’ve made it up, but that’s what she said.”

“OK. Thanks.”

“Everything alright?”

“Yup. Thanks.”

The phone clicked before she responded.

I began pacing again.

As I passed the kitchen, my gaze fell on the pile of mail I’d dumped on the counter.

My physical.

I pivoted and tore through the letters until I found an envelope from the doctor’s office. I scanned the pages.

Obese. Sedentary. Elevated. Hypertension.

My breaths became labored.

Is this it? Is this real?

I wasn’t always like this. I used to have plans; I wanted to be somebody. Before I had to make real decisions, real compromises. Each one whittled me down and removed any excess that didn’t serve the functions society deemed primary, leaving a field of scattered remains that I longed for every day. At this point in my life, only the core remained, perfectly molded to fade into the backdrop of middle-aged manhood.

I pulled the small piece of curled up paper out of my pocket and brought it to eye level with shaky hands.

No.

The paper dropped. Both hands curled into fists as my gut clenched and something rose within me.

No.

My fists slammed down together against the counter, and I welcomed the solid vibrations as they rattled through me.

My life was suddenly reduced to 443 days, and I had nothing to show for it. It’d become an endless loop of disappointments and missed opportunities.

But what could I do about it?

A dream I once had sprang to the forefront.

The Alta Half Ironman.

The race was legendary around here. Seventy miles, split into swimming, biking, and running. Completing it was an accomplishment few could claim.

Picking up my phone, I quickly looked it up. The 2026 race was scheduled for August 15th. Without further thought, I registered.

My eyes widened at the confirmation page and a broad smile stretched across my face. I quickly dialed Sarah back.

“Sarah. I’m doing the 2026 Alta Half Ironman.”

“Huh?”

“The Half Ironman triathlon.”

“Mike, it’s 1:30 am.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“Let’s talk some other time.”

“Yeah, go to sleep.”

The next evening, I bought a pair of running shoes, a calendar, and began training. My first run lasted a mile and a half before I had to walk back. A sober reminder of who I was.

Each night I pushed further. It worked for a while. But soon the weight of my wasted life began outpacing my untrained ambition. I relapsed, losing all my progress and motivation.

It was just a few days later when my phone buzzed with a message from Sarah.

Are you still doing the ironman race? 

The phone stared back at me for a moment as I checked the calendar. 359 days left.

Because I know someone who did it, they belong to a training group. I can hook you up with them, if you want.

The offer reopened a door that was closing fast. I quickly reached out to the person.

I expected a group of elite athletes, or former special forces personnel, but most were like me. With their help, I found direction and organization in my training, and I was able to put together a plan.

Suddenly, my motivation was back, and I clung to the support like a lifeline. Every stride, every stroke, it all gradually became easier, and each week I made progress. I tightened my belt, one loop at a time. My shirts felt too big, then my pants. I could see it, I could feel it; I was proud, and it pushed me onward, kept me focused.

It was contagious. I started showing up earlier to work and asked for more challenging projects. Before long, I was promoted—the first advancement I’d made in years.

An excitement I hadn’t felt in decades filled the space where I normally felt dread and disappointment over the holiday season.

I started reaching out to old friends, reconnecting, and my circle grew. People looked at me differently.

All the while, my time was running out.

99 days.

The first checkpoint race was upon me. A sprint triathlon.

My stomach churned as I waited for the start. The first leg was a half-mile swim, the longest distance I’d ever tried.

The opening gun.

A surge of adrenaline pulsed through my veins, and my body quickly took to the practiced motions. My hands and feet struggled to keep rhythm in the chaotic sea of competitors, many of them racing past me. Soon my lungs burned, and my muscles ached. But I pushed through, found the wall, and pulled myself from the water.

Twelve and a half miles on my bike awaited. Biking came more naturally to me, and soon I had finished and was racing toward the three-mile run, my weakest event. It was normally a manageable distance, but after two miles my legs burned, every step feeling heavier than the last.

But this was it.

This was real.

Something within me surged, and I battled through, each stride slaying another poor choice from my past. This was the only way; no turning back, nothing but forward.

I crossed the finish line and collapsed in a wave of euphoria. I’d become a triathlete. My life, or whatever I had left, would never be the same.

The group took a week off to enjoy the accomplishment and recover. Then it was back to training.

Again, I dug in, pushing through rain, wind, pain, fatigue. I was hooked. I had become what I once thought was beyond my reach.

The second checkpoint race came as the calendar read 57 days. An Olympic triathlon, twice the distance of the first race. Butterflies flipped and turned in my stomach, but I took a breath and focused on my training. This was a race I would run my way, according to my plan.

At the opening whistle, I was off, my body morphing into the machine I’d become. Again, my lungs blazed like a blast furnace, and my muscles turned to cement, both familiar sensations at this point. The race was grueling, and I emptied the tank to finish, but I did it.

With only 23 days left, Sarah and Brian invited me to dinner again. I hadn’t seen either in a while. An upscale Italian place was the choice this time, and I basked in the soft rays of sunlight while I waited for them to arrive.

“Mike?”

I turned as Sarah approached and watched her do a quick double-take, a smile sweeping across her face. “I.. you look incredible!”

I grinned, feeling it this time. “I mean, I’ve known you for years. Why did you wait until now?”

I peered at her, my smile fading. “Well…” My voice deepened, and a slight quiver broke through my lips. “I was dying then.”

Her wrinkled face tilted to the side, and she paused for a beat. “It looks like you’re not dying anymore!”

I couldn’t help but snicker.

During our final preparations, we learned of the potential for severe weather on race day.

Sure enough, the morning of the race brought with it a violent thunderstorm. I was scheduled to be in the third wave of participants, hitting the water at 9 am, but the race had a 12-hour cutoff, so a delay of even a few hours could push some of the race into the next day.

Just prior to the scheduled start of the first wave at 7 am, we were notified of a delay. Minutes ticked by, which turned to hours, and my stomach lurched. I stared at the dark clouds, silently begging them to move and not take any more of my precious racing time.

Thankfully, the storm began to move out around 11, and we were told that the first wave would begin at 1 pm. My group would follow at 3 pm.

The normal butterflies burst into a full-blown tornado. I would need to beat any previous times I had during training to finish before midnight.

Before I knew it, it was my start time.

I got into position and dove into the water as soon as the gun sounded. But as hard as I tried to find my stroke and ease into my pace, I was pressing. I needed to swim faster. Fire smoldered in my lungs around the one-mile mark, and my strokes slowed. I was falling off my pace. Yet still I pushed forward, my arms growing heavier with each motion. I peeked up from the water to find the finish line only a few yards away.

I pulled myself from the water and was rewarded with fifty-six miles of biking. The course was hillier than the previous races, but I was still able to make up some time; a finish before midnight looked possible. Just then, the gears on my bike misfired. The limitation made the second half of the bike race grueling, and I again fell well behind the pace I wanted.

I mercifully pulled up to the finish line around 10 pm, with my weakest event still to come.

My legs felt like cinder blocks after biking, making the transition to running excruciating. My feet slammed into the ground, the fatigue of the bike race throwing my stride off. A few miles in, I came to a stop and slumped over. I was running out of gas, and midnight was approaching. But there was no way to tell what or when anything would happen to me the next day, so I decided to push on.

The steps weren’t coming any easier. At the eight-mile mark, I glanced at my watch. Only eighteen minutes until midnight. Reaching deep into my empty tank, I scraped up the last drops of motivation.

I was able to ease into a sustainable pace as midnight passed. There were still three hours to finish before the cutoff time, if my own time didn’t run out first. I passed the nine-mile marker a moment later, then pushed on past the ten-mile marker. It was getting closer.

A dim light caught my eye just as I looked up from my watch, which read 1 am.

It grew brighter as I approached, illuminating a patch of trees along the left side of the path. A faint groan pierced the peaceful night as I passed.

I froze. My breath came in short bursts as I hurried toward the sound. Under the haze of her headland lay another racer, her body cradled by the roots of the trees.

“Are you OK?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she whimpered. “I twisted my ankle.”

I glanced at the trail, where moonlight sketched the final miles of glory. The hours of grueling training, all the sacrifices I’d made, thundered in my heart. My dream waited in the darkness beyond. It was right there.

Her cold fingers closed around mine. “You can go; I’ll be fine. Finish the race. You don’t have to share my misfortune.”

My eyes lifted from her hand and met her gaze. An ease came over me. The anxiety of the race, of the fortune, of my wasted life, melted away and was replaced with a sudden clarity.

It was the journey.

Her teary eyes fluttered with a spark of recognition.

“We can make it,” I offered.

Her other hand extended, and I pulled her to her feet. Still unable to walk on her ankle, she wrapped her arm around my shoulder, and we shuffled down the path together.

I tried to fill the silence. “I’m Mike, by the way.”

“Jess.”

“Is this your first—”

“Yes.” She sobbed. “I worked so hard; I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Yeah, neither can I.” I grinned as my arm wrapped around her waist and folded into her side, like it was made to be there. Her head tilted and rested on my shoulder.

The path ahead was short, no longer than the beam of our lamps. And at that moment, in the early hours of day 1, there was no past, no future.

There was only now.