September 11 is a sad day in America.

A day to remember those who lost their lives, those who lost someone they loved, and all of us who lost a certain feeling of security in our country.

I also think about the souls who remain connected to those who were left behind.

On this day, I always remember one man.

I met him years ago while competing in the Lake Placid Ironman. In the mornings leading up to race day, I would get up early and head down to the hotel café for coffee. Each morning I found myself sitting with a man from New York. We talked about the race, our training, and whatever anxieties two athletes tend to mull over as race day gets closer.

On race morning, I went downstairs around 4:30 to pick up the breakfast and coffee the hotel had prepared for us.

My coffee mate wasn’t there.

Word was spreading that there had been a fire downtown. Firefighters had used chemicals to extinguish it, and the water in Mirror Lake was being tested to make sure it was safe. There was even some concern that the swim portion of the Ironman might have to be cancelled.

Eventually we received the good news. The water was fine and the race would go on.

And then I saw my coffee mate walking into the hotel.

That was when I learned something about the man I had been sharing coffee with all week.

He was a retired New York firefighter and his name is Ken Meadows.

He had seen the fire downtown that morning and, dressed in his civilian clothes, ran to help. He climbed the fire escape of the burning building and joined the firefighters fighting the blaze until the fire was out.

In doing so, he had inhaled quite a bit of smoke and was having trouble breathing.

Then I learned something else.

He had been a firefighter on September 11, 2001, and had eventually been forced to retire because of respiratory damage suffered during his service following the attacks.

And yet, years later, when he saw another building burning, he ran toward it.

He still attempted the Ironman that day, but the smoke he had inhaled that morning aggravated his already damaged lungs, and he was forced to withdraw after a portion of the race.

I don’t remember his finishing time.

There wasn’t one.

But I will always remember what I witnessed before the race ever began.

A man whose lungs had already paid a price for running toward danger saw another fire and ran toward it again.

Today, when I remember September 11, I remember the thousands of people we lost. I remember the families and friends who have carried their absence ever since. And I remember the firefighters, police officers, first responders, service members and ordinary citizens who moved toward danger when every human instinct must have been telling them to move away.

And somewhere among those memories is a man from New York who once shared a few early-morning cups of coffee with me in Lake Placid.

I don’t know where you are today, my friend.

But I remember you.

I remember you all.