Lucky

For several months I labored over the idea of trying to register for a full Ironman race. I know there was only one that I could finish without too much suffering, and it was Florida.

But the chances of getting into the race are rather slim. People fly down for the weekend, just so they can register in person the morning after. And they are in line with volunteers who also fly to Panama City for the chance to have priority sign-up.

And then there are the competitors who can sign up on Friday, the day before they do this year’s race, for the following year.

I knew that I’d have to be lucky to get in.

Well, just like the day I decided to register for New York on a whim, I was lucky.

Within 3 minutes of the race opening its doors for the remaining spots. I got in.

And now? Well, now that my heart has slowed down, I am coming to the realization that a $600 race is really like a $2,000 race. And I can’t screw this up. This is something that I need to do for myself, not for anyone else, not to qualify for something, not to win some age award, not to see some spectacular destination or get a great medal.

This is for me. Because. Because I can, or at least I hope I can.

Someone asked me why. And I just have to say that it’s something I need to do. Not want to do. Need.

I have a few lazy weeks remaining before I need to step back into the water, remount my bike and build up my calluses, step back onto the road and begin building mileage.

I am lucky—lucky to have secured a bib, lucky to have the salary (buoyed by my education) to pay for this, lucky to have friends who will help me train, and lucky to have a supportive family that understands that this is important for me personally, even if they don’t quite get why. And that’s ok, just as long as they are there for me.

One small glass of milk

It's nice to hear parents extol the virtues and accomplishments of their kids, how they scored a goal during the soccer game, how they gained entry into an overpriced college, how they got through AP calculus without ever opening the book. Often, so many parents blather on, almost as if they themselves conquered the task at hand. But in the end, I smile, nod, and think: "You are clueless as to how lucky you are."

For me, I am proud to say that for the first time in nearly five years, my child drank something other than water.

Yep, I know the progenitor of the AP kid will guffaw, roll his or her eyes. Drink? Something other than water?

Yep, that's what I said.

My child has not drank anything other than water since she was two and half, the point in her young life when her disability emerged from the dark crevices and stole her growth, her ability to talk, her level of tolerance to most foods including any liquid besides water.

And so for years, she has not tasted milk or juice of any kind.

But after a long awaited visit with a dietitian last week, we set forth a plan to introduce small amounts of foods into her diet, all with some coercion. That included small sips of chocolate milk, which we assured her tasted like brownies, one of 10 foods that she currently eats. (Of course, brownies may soon fall to the wayside, just as all foods do at some point.) It took us the better part of 30 minutes to get her to swallow the quarter-cup of flavored cow juice, and she nearly threw it up twice due to her gag reflex.

Yes, it was a baby step. But it was a step in the right direction. And I wasn't anything short of proud of her for agreeing to try it, for forcing it down, for not spewing it back up as she often does with foods she deems as foreign.

After she finished, I tried to hold in the tears, knowing that she may just be one step closer to what society deems as "normal." No, she won't score the winning goals in soccer. No, she most likely won't get into a prestigious university. And no, she is not calculus material.

But sadly, I know of children who have hurdles that are far more difficult than Grace's, and I feel for them, for their parents. So we take what we can get, even if it is only one small glass of milk After all, there are many more half-full glasses that await us.

Dogs run wild

This afternoon a strong wind exhaled across the path as I tried to reel in the dogs on our daily trek by Tyler’s spot. The terriers steadily pulled, their harnesses firm against their chests, the leashes taut as they extended five feet ahead. They furiously sniffed for trickles of urine sprung from the bladders of bitches unknown.

It was a quick two miles, not nearly enough to satisfy my pressing need to suddenly break into an open sprint beneath the sun. But I couldn’t, and I found myself fighting back tears as I walked faster and faster, a speed that some “runners” call “running.” For me, it is not.

Ever since I decided to follow my doctor’s orders, I have felt overwhelmingly frustrated with the idea of not running for six weeks. Right now, I’m at Day 23. That’s a mere 3.5 weeks in.

So how to sate my need to run?

Bike until my knees hurt. Walk the dogs until they protest. Do P90x even though I’m no longer in love with Tony Horton. So I bike 30 miles in a sitting. I walk 9 miles in a day. I do the plyometrics and the squats and the lunges.

Still, the underlying desire remains, like a stain-seeking terrier restrained by a leather harness. I feel as though I want to pull, pull away from this fast walking pace and find a stride that leaves me breathing hard, makes my heart race, gives me a reality check that life is too precious to not extend myself.

People who don’t run cannot truly imagine the frustration of hearing a doctor tell you that you are sidelined. It’s as if a part of you has been removed, a vital part that largely defines who you are and what you do. And so as I bike and as I walk, I close my eyes and envision that I am running along the path, past Tyler’s spot, beneath the clouds and the azure backdrop. I think of the young man who died too young, a boy who now runs wild only in spirit, in memory.

And so I am like the unknown bitch that runs free, without harness, without leash, without my owner holding me back as I pull steadily away in the fields of bull thistle and dandelion. Free, I run, like a dog who knows no limits. Lucky dog.

I am an Ironman 70.3

It’s official. My seven-month relationship has ended.

As difficult as it was to part ways, I severed my commitment to my bike, to my swim, to my run. OK, sever isn't wholly accurate; we're on a break. That’s because I finally conquered my goal of becoming an Ironman. OK, an Ironman 70.3, but an Ironman, nonetheless.

Deciding to tackle this mighty monster came last year when I realized that running alone was not satisfying my desire to push myself further. And so I signed up for the Timberman Half Ironman in New Hampshire that takes place in late August. It came with trepidation for sure, especially since I knew that a serious injury seemed to be looming. And with full force it arrived in March, threatening my ability to finish this race, let alone start it.

As the official training plan began, the plantar fasciitis in my right foot worsened. I cut back on running—even stopped for several weeks—to curb it. That didn’t work. I endured cortisone, a night boot, ice, heat, a Strassburg Sock [insert trademark], over-the-counter orthotics, custom orthotics, and crying sessions in front of my podiatrist. Eventually, as a last resort before “procedural intervention,” as the doctor called it, he ordered physical therapy three times a week.

PT was my godsend.

Granted, Nick, my therapist, pushed—and continues to push—me to sweat-inducing limits during rehabilitation. I shed a few tears, sometimes wondering if I would ever be able to run 13.1 miles after biking 56. On the Wednesday before my race, Nick seemed to have me run through a gamut of exercises. The result? I had so much pain that I walked out in bitter tears. My damn race was 100 hours away, and I couldn’t walk on my heel.

And so I truly tapered. I did practically nothing for four days—not even bike, nor swim. I kept my feet up, watched TV, rode shotgun for nearly 9 hours to the race, hardly walked at all besides at the expo where I saw Dick Hoyt, an incredible man with an incredible story of pushing his paraplegic son through marathons and triathlons.

Knowing what he has accomplished made me realize how lucky I am.

Still, come race day, I felt like bagging it, for I dreaded the pain that might return, as it did in Philly.

I awoke at 3:30 and headed to transition. In the parking lot, I met a couple parked next to us who also drove up from Bear Swamp, which settled my nerves. But I then met up with Victoria, a woman from New York in my age group who had paid a trainer to coach her through preparation. I felt intimidated by her confidence, her “let’s go” attitude, her knowledge of what to expect. Still, she offered to swim with me, bike with me, even run with me to get me through the race. I declined. I didn’t want to hold her up.

Later, we stood in the water of Lake Winnipesukee and watched the pros make it look easy. I feared the water would be choppy as it had been two days before when I stood on the edge of the finish area in steady 25-mph winds. On race day, the first 600 meters out were smooth; however, that all changed as we swam parallel to the shore. The waves crashed onto our left, the side on which I breathe. I swallowed a lot of water, but forged on as best I could. I need to rely on breaststroke in some portions when I gagged on a wave.

On at least four to five stretches, I ended up swimming too far to the left because the crests in the water prevented me from seeing the buoys. In all, due to my poor sighting, I figure that I swam an extra 50 yards beyond the 1.2 miles. That’s not a great distance, but it’s enough when you’re battling waves, anxiety, and deep water.

But eventually I made it back to the beach where I unzipped my wetsuit and left the “strippers” pull it off the rest of the way.

The next round, 56 miles on a very hilly course, tested my mental and physical limits. I make no secret about it: the bike is my weakest sport. Blame arthritis, blame bad knees that go back to childhood, blame my fear of crashing and losing my front teeth. Blame everything. But I fear the bike.

There were portions of bike course during which I felt like quitting. I wept silently at least twice, when the pain in my knee greatly outweighed my desire to finish, when it rained hard and consistently, leaving me somewhat blinded and nearly defeated.

But in my heart, I knew that I could not quit. I had prepared for this, and so in the dark moments, I repeated my mantra continuously: “Today is not the day to quit.”

When I headed back into transition—after getting passed by nearly everyone behind me, or so it felt—I knew that I could just walk the half marathon and still be done with it. But I’m not a TNTer. I don’t walk races. I run them until I can no longer stand the pain.

And so I laced up my Asics, outfitted with my new orthotics, and headed out along a double-loop course. The first few miles felt great. I remember coming in to finish the first 6.5 miles and thinking: “Great, I’m halfway done…great, I have to do this again and it’s going to hurt.” By mile 8, I was correct. My plantar was calling the shots, but I didn’t let it win. I ran-walked those last five miles as best as I could. My goal was to not have an 8 on the clock, and my stretch goal was to see 7:3X on the clock.

As I looked at my watch, I knew that I would not only meet my stretch goal, but I would beat it. Just knowing that I had time in the bank eased my mind. In the end, with about 100 yards to go, out of nowhere I spotted my family. Keni jumped up and down, yelling for me. She rushed out onto the course, and I began to cry.

Despite my exhaustion, the pain, the doubts, I sprinted as best as I could toward the finish to the sound of Coldplay's "Clocks". They announced my full name, my hometown. And I continued to cry. I had done it, reached a goal that some people thought might be beyond my ability.

My watch read 7:26. I had beaten my stretch goal with 3 minutes to spare. Immediately, I knew I had a new goal: to beat 6:59.

In hindsight, I was far from speedy. I was far from top form. I was injured, and I still am. However, I was there. Unfortunately, Victoria, the confident woman who had hired the professional trainer, was not. She didn’t finish. Somewhere along the race, she dropped out, didn't get to run across the last timing mat.

But I did. I am an Ironman, and I have the medal to prove it.

Dancing Baby Moment.

Sometimes, it's the little things that matter.

On my run today, I felt a little sluggish, largely due to the resistant right heel that simply prefers to stay home than take it to the streets. But I pushed on in my attempt to run 10 miles, which was eventually successful. Still, along the way, i was feeling the humidity, feeling the pain when I saw a man pulling a sprinkler into the middle of his lawn. He looked over at me, called out: "Hey, how ya doing?" I looked up, managed to say that I was fine, asked about him. "I'm doing great."

But he didn't stop there.

He added: "Hey, you look great! Keep on going, keep on pushing..."

Suddenly, with those small words, I felt like dancing, even if I couldn't run much faster than I already was. I felt like the Dancing Baby.

All too often we try to impress people with hollow promises, opulent materials. None of that matters. What does matter is sincerity, humility, dancing babies.

July 1

Oh, and I wish this
To turn back the clock and do over again
I was just wondering if you'd come along
Hold up my head when my head won't hold on
I'll do the same if the same is what you want
But if not I'll go
I will go alone
Oh, I need so
To stay in your arms see you smile hold you close
Oh, And it weighs on me
As heavy as stone and a bone chilling cold
I was just wondering if you'd come along
Just tell me you will


I’m exhausted.

I could blame my Thursday workout when I ran six miles, did P90X, and biked for roughly 20 miles. That night, I walked about 3 miles as well. I can’t blame Friday since I rested. Maybe today is at fault: I ran 9 miles, swam a 1.5-mile pyramid, and did yoga and ab work.

Nope.

Working out didn’t tire me.

Dave Matthews did. Concert number 13, I believe.

We headed to the show after dinner at the Capital Grille, a tony, overpriced steakhouse where middle-age hook-ups of people with 18-karat Big Ben watches and plunging cleavage of overly tanned and sagging breasts seemed de rigueur.

It was a clear dichotomy of where we were to where we were headed, a clash of society, indeed.

We walked through Old City, which is much more my style, to catch the ferry with several hundred other DMBandos for another night of sensual improvisational jamming.

I don’t think we’ve seen DMB since Rhode Island when we drove back through a blizzard only to learn Grace was gravely ill and needed hospitalization. That experience kind of soured me from following tours for a while.

But it was Mark’s 45th birthday, and we have not seen Dave since saxophonist Leroi Moore died in 2008. It was also one of the few times that I’ve seen Tim Reynolds perform. Plus, the band will not tour next year, the first time in their 20-year history. So it was time to return. Lucky for me, the setlist included some of my favorites: #41, Warehouse, The Stone, and Pig, which truly speaks the tenets of my life, my beliefs on seizing opportunities.

I danced most of the night beside college kids, middle-agers, adolescents, folks in their 60s, weeders who toked for two hours, even a balding elderly woman with a cane. I saw medics take out a young girl who got violently ill in the bathroom. I heard the couple next to me argue, with him storming out and leaving her behind. And I curiously watched a former colleague who stood two rows in front of me, clearly uncomfortable in this arena, rigid as a robot as his date shared a blunt with a stranger who I called “The Monkey”.

It was a hodge-podge of society, all collectively singing jazzy, bluesy, soulful songs of life and love. We actually cut out during the encore because my foot was angry and my eyes were tired.

But, two days later, the one body part that remained exhausted were my ears. It’s funny how, during my college days, I worked as entertainment editor of the college paper. And I went to every major concert to hit Philly, never worrying about my hearing.

Now, I go to one, and I feel as if nails are piercing through my head.

This reminds me of how quickly our lives change, how we can try to hold on to the past but our youth quickly slips away no matter what actions we take, no matter what reactions we feel.

We can waste our time simply wanting to turn back the clock. Or we can invest our time just trying to slow it down. I vote for the latter.

On the road

Today I experienced one of the most wonderful bike rides that reminded me of how remarkable life can be when witnessed from two wheels.

In the past, I’ve taken in some vivid scenery while pushing 40 to 50-plus miles through the Green Mountains of Vermont and New Hampshire where Brenda and I traversed the Connecticut River, drank iced coffee at Dartmouth, stopped in tiny villages. Lush. Fresh. Pure, indeed--just as life should be.

And I’ve ridden bikes along the coasts on both sides of the country, eyeing the Atlantic and Pacific slowly skate by on many occasions, watching the sun rise, the sun set.

But today, today presented me with a gift from my own backyard when I decided to join a group ride through the virgin farmlands of western Berks County toward Kutztown. It’s an area that I know so very well since it’s just outside of Bear Swamp. However, I’m always weary of biking too far, especially since I was forced off the road in the country last year and ended up spraining my wrist and elbow.

This time, I left comfort at home. In order to ramp up for my race, I need to log more heavy mileage rides, so I went out with the “B” group.

At the start of the ride, we dealt with some traffic as out-of-towners headed toward the Folk Festival to gawk at the Old World traditions of the Pennsylvania Dutch, replete with German-rooted foods, ceremonies, clothes. My roots. (My mother, after all, spent some time growing up on a green bean farm.) And so the culturally deprived from Jersey maniacally barrel down the two-lane roads in a rush to see the simple folk and pay through the nose for handmade quilts that you could buy much cheaper at auction.

But despite the traffic, we soon dodged the madness and turned down less-trodden paths, where we quickly pedaled past the fields of corn, soybeans, and alfalfa. The roads turned and twisted by farmhouses, a few trailers, a pet cemetery, laundry on the line, silos, summer kitchens, a patchwork of peace.

A steady breeze made the punishing sun and 91-degree blanket quite manageable. Instead, my greatest worry became dodging the endless horse pies that dotted the macadam. The manure, however, must’ve been left over from Sunday’s buggy rides to service for the Mennonites were nowhere to be found on the road since today, July 5, was a Monday. Farmers don’t honor the holiday observance. Monday is Monday. And so they work.

We headed through small boroughs and tiny villages that dot the edges of the massive land parcels that weave together this agricultural blanket of husbandry. Cars would eventually pass us along the roads; however, it seemed more common to see fellow cyclists who appreciate the untainted area and the horse pies just as much.

Still, the highlight of the ride came on the return leg, not far from Dryville. About 12 feet from the road, two mammoth horses, clearly not trimmed for dressage, slowly pulled a large plow—guided by a middle-aged Mennonite farmer with a ZZ-Top beard—across a parcel just as we passed. The rider in front of me nodded toward the farmer, who replied in kind. With his barn and fertile acreage in the backdrop, the scene was simplistically beautiful. Untarnished.

I realized, perhaps, how fortunate I am to live in area that still has not completely given in to the pressures of money, of commercialism, of a culture that thrives on machines. Granted, I am guilty of falling prey to the whims of emerging technology. But inside, I still feel as though I maintain some semblance of a naturalist.

And I don’t need to go very far to remind myself of that.