Graceful I Ain't

I bet on average that I trip/slip and fall, or crash, at least once a month. I’m not kidding – I am that klutzy.

I fell again this week while running. Actually I was almost at a standstill when I went down and somehow landed very hard on my right calf. I have been very wisely avoiding my usual ravine route because its ice covered and have been sticking to the dreaded asphalt streets. However, a full bladder necessitated a visit to the wooded ravine and I very slowly and gingerly made my way a few metres over the ice path toward a tree when my feet went out from under me.

As I usually do after I fall - but this time after writing my name in the snow in yellow - I continued with my run and man-o-man did my calf hurt. I convinced myself that the best therapy for it was running so I continued to trot along, up hill, down dale.

I got home and sat down for a few minutes to eat and then stood up to walk and was greeted with immense pain – it felt like my calf muscle was being torn away from my body. It was only for seconds but seemed like minutes – ever notice how time slows down in direct proportion to pain? I could barely walk and struggled up the stairs one at a time like the very young and very old. Getting up in the night to go pee was laboriously painful as stiffness would set in. I know have a large and temporary black and purple tattoo bruise forming on my calf but at least I can run with minimal discomfort.

Sometimes I think I am cursed for participating in sport when traveling: I broke 3 ribs in a mountain bike crash in Australia. I was sick and passed out and woke up in the back of an ambulance at Ironman Wisconsin 2004, and the following year I spent 2 hours laying on the side of the course trying to stay conscious. At the 2006 World Triathlon Champs in Lausanne, Switzerland I crashed at the end of the bike and after the race the medics wanted to take me for x-rays (I was like, ‘Dude, I just ran 10k, how could my hip be broken? Just treat my road rash and let me go’). Then at the 2008 World Champs in Vancouver I crashed with another guy going downhill at about 45km/h and skidded on my left side to a stop and more road rash. The other guy was knocked unconscious and I got another ambulance ride. It was more then 2 weeks before the wounds stopped oozing and I could get in the pool but couldn’t run for 6 weeks. My left hip still has edema fluid and sticks out more then my right. This past summer in Copenhagen I failed to unclip my bike shoes at a stoplight and fell over, but that hardly seems to count – no blood, broken bones, unconsciousness.

Who wants to come race and travel with me this summer? Paramedics preferred.

Lassie, Haiti and the animal in me

It has been kind of rough going for me the last few weeks with some challenges that have interfered with my life/training. First, I had a minor cosmet- er, medical procedure that prevented any swim training for just over a week. Most recently I’ve been battling the flu – but not H1N1 or seasonal flu coz I got those shots - and have missed 2 days of work and 3 days of training.

But the most dramatic challenge was while I was out for a run earlier this week.  Two Border Collies, one medium, one large – the latter looked a lot like Lassie – barking aggressively, ran toward me along the path in the nearby ravine. The owner yelled at the dogs but they paid no heed. I continued running as both dogs came closer, barking loudly. I’m used to dogs running up to me while running - they usually want to play or they stick their nose in my crotch as way of hello - but these dogs were quite aggressive in manner. Nevertheless I held my running line as they came to either side of me and, truth be told, I was now consciously hiding my fear. But maybe they could smell it.

After the first nip at my thigh I automatically went into a fight or flight state of mind. I stopped and turned toward the culprit, Lassie, and it backed up a bit but continued to bark and charge aggressively while the other dog went to my opposite side, barking threateningly. The owner continued to yell at them to no effect. And I realized I was surrounded by a pack, albeit of only 2 dogs, and went into flight mode.

On some level I knew that by running I was acting out the part of prey and feeding into the dog’s aggressiveness. I was hoping that as I got farther away from the owner the dogs would feel less threatened / protective and I could continue on my merry little way.  As I ran I looked over my shoulder as Lassie closed in on me, barking even more aggressively. I continued running, resisting the urge to stop, turn and confront. Instead, I was consciously – no, that’s not quite right – instinctively, I was instinctively waiting for an opportunity and continued at the same pace, neither slowing nor speeding up, my head turned, eyes locked on the dog.

Lassie continued to bark and run closer to my heels, and then it came within biting distance again. Without missing stride, I quickly swung my fist down to connect as hard as I could with Lassie’s snout as it lunged for my thigh. It stopped barking and running and seemed taken aback more then hurt. It turned back toward its screaming owner and I continued down the snowy path, heart pounding, senses heightened, aware of the rush from the adrenaline released into my system. I felt powerful, proud, big.

As I continued my run I remembered a previous encounter with 2 dogs when I was running in which one bite me and would have drawn blood if not for my several layers of winter clothing. But this current incident was less traumatic, perhaps because I had the previous similar episode. In that instance I had a full on fight or flight experience complete with tunnel vision focused on the attacking dog and the distancing and ‘backgrounding’ of voices.

I find these to be quite surreal experiences actually; recognizing that not very far from my surface are base, animal instincts ready to supersede my frontal lobe control. Sobering. And scary. And gives me a glimpse, a very small understanding – and if only fleetingly – what many people of Haiti are experiencing as they try to survive amid the surrounding destruction and anarchy. Base, animal instincts – and behaviours - as they search for food, water, shelter.

Makes my recent ‘challenges’ seem insignificant. And my whining about them petty.

My First Triathlon: Passion Stomps Ego

As a former fat bastard, pack a day plus smoker and party animal extraordinaire, my initial foray into the world of competitive athletics was inauspicious, to say the least.

My athletic background consisted of … wait, I have no athletic background. Growing up on a farm with hours of chores every day negated any opportunities to participate in after school athletics – there were cattle to be fed and dung to be disposed; in one end and out the other. While these were physically demanding chores, by no stretch of the imagination did I ever consider them to be athletic activities. They don’t give out medals for shit shoveling.

I entered my first triathlon without knowing how to swim, although I knew how to ride a bike and was a sporadic jogger. Fortunately I had quit smoking the previous year but was carrying an extra 30 or so pounds. On the morning of the sprint distance race (750 metre swim, 20 km bike, 5 km run) I stood on the beach, waiting for my age group to start, munching on a power bar, thinking I would need this energy for the next few hours. Eating before swimming, as our mothers told us, is not a good idea, as I would later be reminded.

Prior to the start I had placed my bike in the transition zone with several hundred others and wondered how I would be able to find mine in this sea of bikes. I decided that I would drape a towel  - bright pink no less - over my bike so that I could spot it easily among the masses. As I left the transition zone to walk toward the swim start I turned back to have a look: my pink towel stood out and my bike would be a cinch to find. I was proud of my ingenuity and pitied those fools that would be searching franticly for their own in the sea of bikes.

Since I had never really been involved in competitive sporting activities, my thoughts were unencumbered by negative chatter and self-doubt. Instead, I distinctly remember that in the moments before the horn blasted to start the race, I took a look around at the other men, and had thoughts to the effect of: ‘None of these guys, these super jocks, know who I am. Boy, are they going to be surprised when I kick their ass. They will definitely know who I am after the race’. Holy runaway ego, Batman!

The horn sounded and we ran into the water and started swimming. Seared in my memory is the first 30 seconds: I was knocked around, punched and swam over, and quickly I was in last place, gasping for air, as the pack swam away from me. For some, obviously self-delusional reason, I had thought swimming was like breathing: it would come naturally. Not so much. I flailed around, sinking in and then swallowing the water – I think the technical term is drowning - before abandoning my so-called freestyle swim stroke in favour of living. Flipping over onto my back so I could float and catch my breath, I very - very - slowly made progress around the swim course.

About a quarter of the way I started to feel sick from the over exertion and started puking that power bar. Treading water as the remnants floated away, I could see the next group of athletes swimming toward me. Then I heard a voice – to this day I do not know if it was the race announcer’s voice echoing across the lake or my guardian angel – but he said that I should get out of the path of those swimmers. Suddenly I realized that this pack of 100 or so men did not care that I was in their path, they were going to swim right over me and I was going to die. I used all the energy I had to dog paddle perpendicular to their path and barely got out of their way before upchucking the rest of the power bar. Lifeguards in a boat stopped and asked if I wanted a ride back to shore. I’m not sure why, but I declined, and continued flailing – on my back so I could breathe - toward the swim exit. Many, many scores of people swam past me and I was dead last out of the water. But not dead.

I made my way from the swim exit to the transition zone to find all the bikes gone except for one lonely bike: the one with the bright pink towel. My ego, already bruised from my swim fiasco, took another hard hit. My ass had been kicked – thoroughly, and by everyone. Even the sixty something grandmothers. Nevertheless, I hopped on my old, rusty, steel-framed bike and started to chase the competitors in front of me, none of whom I could see.

Eventually, toward the end of the bike section, I caught two cyclists - a father keeping pace with his 14 year old daughter. She was riding an ancient bike with a banana seat and frilly things extending out of the handle bar ends. I passed them and realized – much to my ego’s relief – that I wasn’t going to finish last overall.

I finished the bike, weakly pulled on my jogging shoes, and started the 5 km run portion. Holy mother of god! My legs felt like tree trunks in quick sand. I quickly discovered that running after cycling was pure, unadulterated torture and struggled to get one foot in front of the other. Time slowed as I battled to find reasons to keep running as my body screamed at me to stop, or at least walk.

Then I saw I was catching a guy in my age group. I was in a new and unfamiliar world of pain and, to be honest, it was an emotional rush to be immersed in it and still want to hunt down a guy in my age group. For some reason, those contradictory forces appealed to something inherent in me; slow down for physical relief vs keep pushing for emotional rush, give up vs never give up.

I made it to the finish line; sore, exhausted and nauseous. My ego had been crushed, my innards turned inside out, and my body abused. I loved it. I had found a passion. That taught me humility, resiliency and self-efficacy. And I was instantly addicted: the next day I signed up for the rest of the triathlons in the season.

Discover your passions. Life’s too freakin’ short not to.

Triathlon Training: Nasty, Brutish But Not Short

Life is “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short”. That’s according to philosopher Thomas Hobbes. Cheer up Chuckles, you didn’t have it so bad.

I have officially started my ironman training which means the ‘get fat and slow’ part of my training season has come to a screeching halt at 173lbs and many missed workouts, but not meals. Mmmmm – chocolate. Alas, it is now time to buckle down (coz I can barely buckle up) and start into long base building workouts. As such, I have recently bumped up the volume and frequency of workouts, especially on the swim and bike, and implemented hard-day/easy-day rotations.

After 3 months of sporadic, non-structured maintenance training and loss of fitness (replaced by fatness), it is a bit of a shock to the system to have some longish multisport training days. Do you know how I tell? Because I fall asleep before 8pm while sitting on the couch – head back, mouth open, snoring and drooling. Very attractive.

After the first few hard days, which were, um, hard, I’m kind of pleasantly surprised at how quickly my body is adapting to the return of training stress. And the familiarity of real hunger as a signal to eat is a welcome return compared to the no holds barred eating I had been doing.

Hunger also reminds me of my trip to Malawi and meeting people, many living with HIV/AIDS, who were literally starving to death. In particular, I have a vivid memory of meeting a frail and rail-thin grandmother. We sat in the shade under a tree outside her one room hut. Through an interpreter I learned that she was looking after her 3 grandchildren, all under the age of 8, because their parents had died of AIDS. Two of the kids were also HIV+.

She showed me her meager supply of maize that was to feed them for the next few months until the next harvest. She also gestured toward the current crop. Being a farm boy, I recognized a crop stunted by lack of rain and fertilizer. At the time I wondered how she would manage. Today, I wonder if she and her grandchildren are alive.

Since then, when I feel peckish because I haven’t eaten in a few hours, I catch myself before saying “I’m starving”. It belittles the challenge of those in the world who struggle to find enough food every day to sustain life.

Meanwhile, my biggest challenge is finding enough time to swim, bike, run. A far cry from being poor, nasty, brutish and short.

WTF up with our world Hobbes?