For those of you who don’t know what an Ironman is, it’s a 2.4-mile swim, a 112-mile bike ride, and a 26.2-mile marathon—back-to-back-to-back, all in one day. People train for years to do this. I am not one of those people.
I came to Hotchkiss as a skinny kid who doubted his own self-worth. And while I’ve met some of the most incredible people here, there were also moments that stuck with me for the wrong reasons. I was called “intellectually incapable” in a classroom. I was called “mentally insane” by a coach. More than once, I was made to feel like I just didn’t belong.
But there is nothing that excites me more than proving people wrong. So, naturally, my logical response was to attempt one of the hardest endurance events on the planet.
On October 12, 2024, the journey began in the Hixon Pool. I’ve been swimming most of my life, so staring at the black line for hours is something I’m weirdly comfortable with. One hour and 20 minutes later, I hit 169 laps. 2.4 miles down. Then came the bike.
I decided the Millerton Rail Trail was the best venue. It started like a walk in the park—rock music, good scenery, feeling strong. But at mile 111—one mile from the finish—I crashed straight into a curb. I stood up with throbbing wrists and bleeding knees. My only thought was: finish the last damn mile. So I did. Afterwards, I went to Sharon Orthopedics and met with Dr. Yaghobian. He took one look at the X-ray and said, “Your wrist is dislocated and broken.”
That left one small problem: I still hadn’t run the marathon. And I had to finish what I started. Running 26.2 miles on the track in a shoulder-high cast was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. My three years of cross country here taught me how to hold an eight-minute pace, but maintaining it for three-and-a-half hours in that condition was pure agony. Looking back, I honestly don’t know how I pushed through the pain.
There is a backstory to this all. My grandmother, Zhang Yuezhen, was fearless. When my dad was in his twenties, he was working as a bank teller when a robber burst in, ran up to his counter, and stole the cash right out of his hands. As the guy scrambled outside, my grandmother sprinted out the door, chased him down, and beat him until the police arrived.
When I started running in middle school, she was at every single race—always smiling at the finish line. She told me she wanted to live long enough to see me do something big. But in the fall of 2022, she was diagnosed with a brain tumor—a death sentence. When I went to see her, chemotherapy had changed her physically, but in her eyes, there was no fear, only determination. When I left, she squeezed my hand, and I knew that would be the last time I ever saw her.
My grandmother is the person my grit comes from. When I’m at mile 90 on a bike and my legs are screaming, I think about her eyes. I think about how “giving up” simply didn’t exist in her world.
At Hotchkiss, I’ve had to practice that mindset every day. After a brutal math test? You show up the next morning. After a tough practice when your body is wrecked? You get back and push harder. Because that’s what this place demands of us. And Grandma, if you’re listening—I hope I’ve made you proud. Because as long as that’s true, I don’t know how to give up.
