The Finish

http://www.asiorders.com/view_user_event_video.asp?EVENTID=76834&BIB=537&VLOC=Finish

“Endurance is one of the most difficult disciplines, but it is to the one who endures that the final victory comes.”

After a week of illness, exhaustion, and disappointment, I am finally ready to complete my blog.

But before I publish it, I wanted to include the link that marks the end of this journey, one made possible by the support of my closest friends and family, not to mention the little girl inside of me who is tired of carrying the label of "victim".

Kids

I hear the funniest things in the hallways of school. I usually just soak them in, plow ahead, smile or shake my head internally.

You never know what you're going to hear, but every morning proves to offer a morsel of insight into the teenage mind. And you wonder: "Was I ever like that in school?"

So on my way in today, I saw this tiny little bird, a small brunette who was probably 14 and weighed in at maybe 85 pounds, if she was wearing her backpack. And I walked past in the midst of her conversation, and this was all I heard:

"And so I farted in the box before I realized that there was a crack in the bottom. So I got some tape and fixed it, and then I farted again..."

You can't make this stuff up.

30 days to go

Exactly 11 months ago today, I poised in front of my laptop and waited for noon to arrive. I clearly remember counting down the minutes, making sure that my Visa and my USAT card sat next to me.

With great trepidation and an excited fear, I cued in on the address for Ironman Florida and said a little prayer. Would I be able to secure a spot to compete in a 140.6-mile race that sells out within hours? I had doubts.

As soon as high noon arrived, I tried to log on to the site. Fail. The website had trouble processing the hits as they came across. Repeat. Fail. Repeat. Fail. But within five minutes or so, I was in and hit “register.” I frenetically typed in all of the vital information requested, scanned the release about the health risks, signed off that I knew I bordered on crazy, and hit submit.

Within a minute, my $625 was gone.

And like that, I registered for something that would consume a large part of my life for the next year.

Here it is now, Oct. 4, 2011.

It’s been a long journey, one that’s not yet over, but one that has forced me to be a queen of time management—management that has often sacrificed my commitment and responsibilities to others.

At this point in my life, I have run eight marathons, so I know how much training for 26 miles can sap you of your energy. But this is different. This is a beast unto its own. The running? Doesn’t scare me. It’s the other stuff.

By now, I’ve swam beyond the distance of my race. The cost has been a few swimsuits, two ear infections, lots of water up my nose, dry hair, hours alone in a pool that hasn’t completely cooperated with my schedule.

I’ve biked distances that have made me cry: a painful 102-ride on rainy technical hills the day before a hurricane, a freezing 91-mile ride in the wind and rain that forced me to heat my toes on the car’s vent, an 80-miler on the trainer during which I watched three chick flicks and developed saddle sores that seemed to linger on for weeks.

But it hasn’t all been ugly.

The water has become a calming haven for me, a place for reflection and focus, a discipline that has sculpted my upper body and arms more than any P90 program ever did.

The bike has become an escape, a machine that has allowed me to see the patchwork of farmland across Berks County where I pass the quiet Mennonites who guide their horse-led buggies to church, a device that’s allowed me to ride along the green Schuylkill where the water serenely flows into a city that I love.

This has all been with sacrifices, however.

During many of these hours away, I’ve thought about my girls and my son, and I silently lament about the hours I miss with them, with my family. Time that's slipped away. And I’ve turned down offers to have lunch, dinner, and drinks with my friends. I’ve been remiss in returning phone calls, in replying to emails. I’ve turned down invitations to parties. The closest alliances that I’ve maintained have largely been with my constant running partners, women who have supported me through many hours, many miles. They've filled the voids of others.

For them, I’m grateful. For those who’ve understood, I’m thankful. I just need people to realize that this, this is about me. This is something I need to do.

Reaching beyond limits

When we raise children, we often have certain expectations. We expect them to be healthy, we expect them to be happy, we expect them to be like most other normal kids on the block.

We don’t expect them to be disabled, a factor that alters the rules of the game.

And so when our expectations aren’t met, we go through a sense of loss, a sense of depression, a sense of why me, why us, why her? But once you get through the murky waters, we often discover that certain rewards await in this journey as we try to find strategies to cope with modified expectations.

July brought one such reward.

Over the winter, I researched different programs for Grace to join. She had done Scouts, art lessons, running races. None stuck. She was in the midst of Parkettes, but I didn’t want to be inside the humid facility over the summer. I stumbled upon a small local swim team, the Macungie Bears. She doesn’t like high-pressure situations, but I broached the idea with her. I showed her team pictures online, talked about how fun it would be being a Bear.

“I won’t wear a cap.”

“I don’t want to race anyone.”

“I only swim underwater.”

I silently nodded. Without much discussion, we signed up one evening in April. We shelled out more money than I wished. I secretly began to regret it, figuring I just donated three Benjamins to a non-profit. She'd spurn this, as she promised.

But the weeks passed, and soon enough, practice for the experienced kids started in early June. She didn’t need to report for duty until the month’s end, after school had ended. We didn't discuss it. I just kind of took her. The first day, she cried, quietly protesting. Her anxiety was winning. But I assured her that I would wait on a nearby bench while she joined the 7 other kids as “cubs,” inexperienced Bears not yet ready for prime-time competition.

Give it a day, kid, I asked.

That first morning, under the guidance of Coach Sue, she learned freestyle. The second, breaststroke. The third, backstroke. It all seemed very natural to her. By the fourth day, the coach got her on the diving block. I cringed. She had never dove before. But there she went. It was mostly a belly flop, but she was fearless. I watched as she not only kept up with the other kids, she swam faster than most of them.

After practice, the coach pulled Grace to the side to talk. Soon, Grace ran over to me: “Coach Sue wants to talk to you.” I thought it’d be bad news: Grace wasn’t listening, she needs to practice more; maybe she needs lessons. So I trudged over.

“She’s ready for her first meet,” Coach Sue said.

“What?”

“Yep, let’s get her in next week, freestyle and backstroke.”

My jaw literally fell open.

“You cannot be serious.” I shook my head.

“I am.”

“You need to know: she’s autism spectrum. She may not handle this very well.”

The coach seemed surprised: “Really? I teach special ed. I can’t even tell. She just fits in so naturally.”

After she left, I had to convince Grace that “racing” would be fine. She didn’t think so. I had to throw out a hook: “I’ll give you five dollars for every swim meet.” She bit.

The next week, we found ourselves in Quakertown, trying to figure out how this whole swim meet thing was going to work for her. I hadn’t been to one in years since Andrew was the last competitive swimmer in our family. It surely would be different with her.

At the meet, she found the interaction with her teammates to be socially awkward, a characteristic of the autistic. She needed to hang with family. She needed reassurance. She needed to see us throughout the event. She needed reminding of what to do and when.

But when it came time to go, she went.

She was last off the block because, well, she didn’t quite get the whole concept of “go.” The fact that she was racing did not sink in. Still, as we yelled and cried tears of joy, she reached and reached, pulling up from 8th place faster and faster as we ran down the side of the pool. Thirty seconds later, she came in third. Had that pool been one meter longer, she would’ve won 25-meter backstroke.

It wasn’t the last time she came from behind.

She continued to place at other meets, taking some firsts and seconds in various strokes. The coup of the season was that, in her first race in Quakertown, she swam fast enough in backstroke to qualify for “Best of the Best,” the suburban league’s district championships.

Who knew that the cub had it in her, beating out girls who had already been on the team in previous years, whose parents spent money on private lessons since they were four?

Still, the truth was that she didn’t want to go championships. She fought the idea and told the coaches she wouldn’t compete. She couldn't face the pressure. She worried about being last. However, I wasn’t going to accept her answer; I knew that all she needed was reassurance. “She’s going,” I quietly mouthed. “Put her down.”

The hook? Ten bucks and a large soft-serve twist.

When championships arrived two weeks later, we didn’t care how well she swam. She could’ve been last. For us, the fact that within a month she overcame some fears, pushed aside her anxieties, and kicked self-doubts to the curb made everything worth it.

As she waited for her heat, I sat in the bleachers and silently wept behind my sunglasses. Kids from her team yelled her name. Coach Sue called to her. Coach Phil rubbed her shoulders, gave her a thumbs-up and a high-five before she plopped into Lane 5 and cued up under the block.

After the gun sounded, she was far behind. Dead last again. But like before, she motored on--reaching, reaching--and ended up in third, missing second in her heat by a half stroke. It didn’t matter.

She did what she needed to do: earn 10 bucks, score some ice cream, and be proud of what she can do.

She was still a champion.

As Emerson wrote: “The reward of a thing well done is to have done it.” We will do as much as we can to help her discover not only who she is, but experience the rewards of reaching beyond the imaginary limits placed before her. My hope is that every child with a label can enjoy such moments.

Butterfly moment

The Jersey Shore premieres its fourth season tonight.

I don’t know this from personal obsession. I know this from all of the Facebook posts provided from former students and from my niece—a stunning little sweetheart who shouldn’t be watching such brain poison. But there was one post on the social network that stood out. It came from Ryan, a former student who graduated years ago. He’s creative, introspective, outgoing. And he isn’t afraid to say it like it is, and never was.

Ryan took a risk and wrote something a tad critical of people who are absolutely consumed with the show, people who schedule vacations around dime-store celebrities with two-can ‘do’s and fake bakes. Well, people attacked him, called him a hater. The list of comments was pretty long.

But his honesty gave me a glimmer of hope that not all twenty-somethings are wasting away their lives with this Jersey circus. Maybe some realize that life is invaluable when you’re 20. It’s a time when you aren’t burdened with a laundry list of responsibilities, that before you settle down with a partner, with kids, with a mortgage, that you shouldn’t be at home tied to cable.

You should be living.

Later, I headed to Wawa to get gas and coffee. And while there, Snow Patrol’s "Chasing Cars" came on. Of course, this is the song that makes me think of Tyler, who was friends with Ryan. I wondered what he would think about people’s fascination with the clowns. And, as I had written to Ryan, I thought that maybe I have no idea about what Tyler would think. But in my mind, I can only imagine him telling people to live their own lives, to not experience it through the exploits of others.

And then suddenly, as I began to well up with the thought of Tyler in his coffin—a confining end before being set free—a yellow Monarch butterfly came out of nowhere and landed on the window of my car, right in front of me. It flapped its wings, turned—almost as if it looked at me—and then flew off into a grey-filled sunset.

Chicken connection -- aka a poultry post

Today marks the first full week of summer vacation, and already I am antsy.

Granted, my days are not wasted in a hammock, dreaming of greener pastures. They are, indeed, filled with lists of to-do and not-to-do, places to see, people to visit, projects to collaborate. And yet, I remain restless. As always.

This past weekend I had the great fortune (and I do consider myself fortunate) to compete in the Philadelphia Insurance Triathlon, Olympic distance. After a tough race last year, I prayed that my body would improve from injuries, and it has. Thanks to cooperative weather, I managed to decrease my finish time by 24 minutes, bringing my final time to 3:06. I went in hoping to beat 3:15, so I was pleased.

But the best part, however, was meeting new folks who also embrace multi-sport. I’m not saying that running people are much different, for they aren’t. But triathletes are not only about performance. They are also all about the toys. And I secretly drooled over quite a few. I know that I will never shell out more than I already have for a bike, and I am rather happy riding a road bike instead of a tri bike. But along with the wide range of machines, the people are just so easygoing and outgoing.

Both at the expo and during the race, I met up with several folks who were just positively keepers.

Some included Chip, a true dude that I met through Facebook since we had mutual friends and mutual interests. He, too, is a runner as well as triathlete. And he's quite an interesting and charming fellow - with an affable pooch appropriately named Kona - who invited me to crash the food soiree at the Philly Tri tent after the race. (Didn't he realize how much food I consume?)

And then there were two absolute angels in my age group who immediately sensed how cold I was before the swim. (A warm-up swim had given me a serious case of the chills, and my teeth were literally chattering.) Without saying more than 30 or so words, they sat next to me before our wave took off and both started rubbing my arms to ward away my goose bumps. And then right before we went off, the race director yelled that some woman broke her goggles. Did anyone have a spare pair? Immediately three people volunteered.

After the race, I met up with Sharon, a pro racer, whose name I know from the circuit. As we spoke, I told her of the common man in our lives: Bill.

I love Bill. She loves Bill. What’s not to love about Bill. Bill is our butcher. Mr. Bill. Organic, free-range chicken man about town. A-town. Bill sends chicken to Sharon. Bill hands me chicken over the counter. Anyway, we had a bit of a conversation about her connection to Bill. It made me crave one of his spinach-feta chicken burgers. But in the end, I congratulated her on her race, she did the same to me.

It is a small world, indeed. And maybe that’s why I’m so antsy, because there’s just not enough time left before all of our eggs hatch.

Cavy Nation

I confess: I may have been wrong. OK, let’s strike “may have been.” I was wrong.

About two years ago, I stumbled upon a cavy convention in downtown Macungie, a gathering of individuals (mostly middle-aged women who eschewed Michael Kors for elastic-waist shorts) doting on dozens and dozens of guinea pigs. They dolled some in clothes, led some on leashes, prepped ‘em to strut their small-mammal stuff down the cavy walk.

It was a Twilight Zone experience, to say the least.

Walking away, I couldn’t help but shake my head, roll my eyes.

You see, growing up, I never was an animal kind of girl. We bred spaniels, and I owned a few box turtles, salamanders, a hermit crab. But fluffy animals that wore tiny hats and vests? Creatures that I’d be more likely to eat than treat? It wasn’t happening.

Fast-forward 18 months. Christmas, 2010. Annie’s friend couldn’t afford to regularly pay her heating bill. Thus, Michelle began seeking temporary homes for her collection of pets, lest they freeze in her frigid apartment. Somehow, I was selected for cavy duty.

Within two days of my reluctant shrug, Mr. Cuddles arrived in his cage. I snarled at the package and made the girls double pinkie-swear that if I paid for the rodent’s food and bedding, they were wholly responsible for his feeding and upkeep.

Yep, they agreed.

Their promise lasted a week.

Soon, I began to notice Mr. Cuddles’ little turds pile up. He ran out of water. He started squealing for food. I felt as though I was continuously texting Annie: “Clean the animal.” Somehow, she was always busy. She’d promise to stop by the next day.

But the truth is that the next day rarely came, and I have a highly sensitive sense of smell. I can detect a noisome aroma with the smallest of whiffs. And damn, I could smell the lingering and festering stench of the hay that lined the bottom of the cage.

I closed the door to Annie's room, but I knew the truth.

I had to clean his cage.

And on that first day of mucking the stalls, the chocolate-brown ball of hair ran in crazy circles. It skittered away, kicked the mess on to the floor, head-butted my hands. This went on for weeks. It bit me whenever it could, and so I started to despise it. I cajoled the girls into giving it carrots, just so that I wouldn’t have to see it. They agreed, but the novelty soon wore off. I’d have to be the Queen of the Cavy.

By February, I stopped referring to the critter as Mr. Cuddles. My nose and I became so frustrated with the situation that I couldn’t even remember that it was a guinea pig. “Guinea pig” sounded so cute and playful. By March, I was calling it “that rat.” By April, I referred to it as “that thing.” Sometimes, I called it “that hairball.”

His newness disappeared; no one paid attention to it. Slowly, however, I began to feel bad for it, especially after Annie said that no guinea pig had ever lived under Michelle’s care as long as Mr. Cuddles had.

So one day, I tried to pick him up. He panicked. In circles he sprinted as I tried to grab his silky body. Finally, I spooked him into a corner, scooped him up, brought him close to my chest. He began to purr as he closed his eyes. It wasn’t too bad, I figured. I looked for some advice online. I asked for ideas from a friend whose sister has a bevy of cavy. I offered it kale. (He turned his nose.) I offered him treats. (He pushed them aside.) I offered celery. (Major snub.)

I even took the advice of cleaning the cage more often, in a way I never imagined I would: scooping out his daily droppings with a plastic spoon. How did I ever end up here, scouring Timothy hay for morsels of waste? Heck, how did I even know about Timothy hay?

I don’t know.

But I think it started the day when I was petting him and he turned his head, as if he wanted his ears scratched. And so I gently scratched them. Then he turned around, as in “rub my rear.” And so I did. He lifted his hind quarters in seeming bliss. After I stopped that day, he ran to the side of the cage, stood on his hind legs, and watched me leave. When I was just out of view and nearly out the door, he began squealing loudly. As I peaked back in, he stopped. We played this back-and-forth peek-a-boo for a few minutes.

I knew then that I love this cavy.

Now, five months after his arrival, I hear him call me as I lumber up the stairs. (Yes, he knows it’s me.) And I’ll peak in. And he’ll stick his front paws out of the cage, beckoning for ear scratching and rump rubbing. And I’ll give in like the ladies at the convention, doting on him for all of his fragility, his quick feet, his warm eyes.

Granted, I won’t be dressing him up in a cowboy hat and vest, but I will love this little man until I can love him no longer.