Minda Dentler – TED Talk TRANSCRIPT
It was October 13, 2012, a day that I will never forget. I was on my bike, pushing up what seemed like a never-ending barren hill.
And it wasn’t just any hill: it was a 15-mile climb up to a town called Hawi on the Big Island of Hawaii. And it wasn’t just any ride: it was at the Ironman World Championship. I can still feel my muscles burning.
I was struggling, tired and dehydrated, as I could feel the heat emanating from the asphalt, measuring almost 98 degrees. I was near the halfway point of the bike portion of one of the most prestigious, longest, single-day endurance race events in the world.
Every year, during my childhood, I watched this very race on TV in our family living room. I sat next to my dad on our 1970s-style orange and brown sofa, and I remember being in utter awe at how these athletes pushed themselves to their limit in this grueling race.
And just so you don’t get the wrong idea, my family members weren’t just spectators. They were incredibly athletic, and I always participated from the sidelines, cheering on my three siblings or handing out water at local races. I remember wanting so badly to be able to compete, but I couldn’t.
Even though I couldn’t play sports, I decided to be active in my community. I volunteered at the local hospital in high school. In college, I interned at the White House, studied abroad in Spain and backpacked through Europe all by myself with my leg braces and crutches.
Upon graduating, I moved to New York City for a job in management consulting, earned an MBA, got married and now have a daughter.
At age 28, I was introduced to the sport of hand-cycling, and then triathlon, and by luck, I met Jason Fowler, an Ironman World Champion, at a camp for athletes with disabilities.
And like me, he competed in a wheelchair. And with his encouragement, at age 34, I decided to go after Kona. The Kona, or Hawaii Ironman is the oldest Iron-distance race in the sport, and if you’re not familiar, it’s like the Super Bowl of triathlon.
And the Ironman, for a wheelchair athlete like me, consists of a 24-mile open-water swim in the Pacific Ocean, a 112-mile hand cycle ride in lava fields — now, that sounds exotic, but it’s not as scenic as it sounds, and it’s pretty desolate — and then you top it off with a marathon, or a 262-mile run in 90-degree heat using a racing wheelchair. That’s right, it’s a total distance of 1406 miles using just your arms in less than 17 hours.
No female wheelchair athlete had ever completed the race because of the strict, seemingly impossible cutoff times. And so there I was, putting it all out on the line.
And when I finally reached the top of that 15-mile climb, I was discouraged. There was no way I was going to make that swim in my time limit of 10 and a half hours, because I was almost two hours off pace. I had to make the agonizing decision to quit. I removed my timing chip, and I handed it over to a race official. My day was done.
My best friend Shannon and my husband Shawn were waiting at the top of Hawi to drive me back to town. And on my way back to town, I began to cry. I had failed. My dream of completing the Ironman World Championship was crushed. I was embarrassed.
I felt like I’d messed up. I worried about what my friends, my family and people at work would think of me. What was I going to put on Facebook? How was I going to explain to everyone that things didn’t go the way I had assumed or planned?
A few weeks later I was talking to Shannon about the Kona “disaster,” and she said this to me: “Minda, big dreams and goals can only be realized when you’re ready to fail.” I knew I had to put that failure behind me in order to move forward, and it wouldn’t be the first time that I had faced insurmountable odds.
I was born in Bombay, India, and just before my first birthday, I contracted polio, which left me paralyzed from the hips down. Unable to care for me, my birth mother left me at an orphanage. Fortunately, I was adopted by an American family, and I moved to Spokane, Washington just shortly after my third birthday.
Over the next few years, I underwent a series of surgeries on my hips, my legs and my back that allowed me to walk with leg braces and crutches. As a child, I struggled with my disability I felt like I didn’t fit in.
People stared at me all the time, and I was embarrassed about wearing a back brace and leg braces, and I always hid my chicken legs under my pants. As a young girl, I thought thick, heavy braces on my legs did not look pretty or feminine.