HIV+ Triathlete: Til I drop

Ironman Louisville Race Report: Never Give Up

2010-08-31T09:52:00.000-07:00

Pre-race recap:

First Ironman: Wisconsin 2004. Sick heading into the race. Couldn’t consume calories or fluids during. Woke up in the back of an ambulance after I passed out half way through the bike. Later diagnosed with parasitic infection.

Second Ironman: Wisconsin 2005. Very, very rough day but managed to stave off unconsciousness to get to the finish 11 minutes before the midnight cutoff. I am an Ironman.

This Ironman: Missed 5 weeks of training this spring due to undiagnosed illness. Missed another week completely in June plus another couple of weeks of reduced training. Same reason.

Was not racing with a watch. Did not want pressure of time goals. The day was going to be hot, humid, and um, hot. Getting to the finish was job number one.

Not having access to my medicinal cookies to alleviate the side effects of my medications was a concern. It was going to make a challenging day more so. Spelled ‘POZ’ with the reflective tape on the back of my race shirt.

If nothing went wrong – like oppressive heat and humidity – and absolutely everything went right, then I thought 12 hours was possible. But really, getting to the finish line was the primary goal. At all costs.

I was only going to leave the Ironman course across the finish line or by ambulance. Quitting was not an option.

Giddy up, Buttercup.

Swim:

Pretty much according to plan. Just swam easy. Executed my planned mantra for the entire day: ‘Hold back. Relax. Focus on form.’

Time trial swim start meant not getting punched in the head even once during the 3.8 k / 2.4 mi swim. Nice.

Bike:

What doesn’t kill you…

Did not push the pace at all. Even though it was not yet 9 am it was hot. And humid. A lot of guys passed me in the first 40 km / 25 miles. I didn’t care. I was going my own ‘easy-does-it’ pace.

Couldn’t consume solid food anymore around mile 65 / 100 km. Only gels would go down. Hmmm…that never happened it training. Must be the heat.

A few athletes walking their bikes up the hills during the second loop. Others are lying on the side of the road. Starting to feel less then stellar myself. Heat really starting to kick in.

The guys that were kind of riding at my pace have disappeared behind me. Fewer guys are passing me. I’m going easy, holding back. Want to make sure I get to the finish line.

Self care is paramount and I’m doing it: calories, water, electrolytes. Cold water in the helmet. Hold back. Relax. Focus on form.

The last 40 km / 25 mi I start feeling a little rougher. I back off the pace a wee bit more just to make sure I’m feeling the love for the run.

Guys stop passing me. I’m starting to catch and pass some people. I ask if they notice that it’s kind of hot.

Oh yeah, it was humid. And hot. Did I mention that?

Run:

Some bad patches. Some ugly patches.

I took my medications, the ones that keep me from certain death, during the second transition. As I swallowed them I thought: ‘Dream as if you will live forever. Live as if you will die today’.

Coming out of transition I did not feel my usual perky self. Running 26.2 miles did not seem appealing.

I thought it was hot when I was biking. Now there was no wind chill factor. Things were going south in a big, big hurry.

The heat was oppressive: 96 F / 35.5 C. The humidity offensive: well into the 90’s. Making it feel well over 100 F / 37.7 C.

I slowly jogged about 200 metres before walking. I was not feeling well. At all. It crossed my mind that a marathon is a long way to walk.

In what will become a repeating pattern at every aid station, I put ice in a zip lock baggy under my hat. Ice down my shirt. Cold, wet sponges tucked under my shirt on my shoulders and back of neck. Fill my water bottle. More electrolytes. More calories from gels.

I feel a wee bit better and am able to start running. By mile 2 I’m feeling absolutely wonderful. Only 24 miles to go. I’m thinking that I can do this. I’m over that bad patch. Just the same, easy does it. Don’t want to count your chickens.

By mile 4 I’ve lost that lovin’ feeling. By mile 5 I’m walking again. But so is almost every one else at times. I tell myself that I can manage my body by just walking the rest of the way.

By mile 6 I’m lying on the side of the road. Time is distorted. The aid station volunteers keep checking on me: ‘Do I need medical assistance?’

A little voice in my head says ‘Suck it up, Buttercup’. I slowly get up and start walking. And then running. As I go through mile 8 I reach around and give myself a little pat on the back: ‘Good job, Scott’.

I run a few more miles before things deteriorate again. More walking. More athletes lying on the side of the road. ‘That was me’ I think. I run some more.

I stop sweating. I know this is not a good sign. Somewhere around mile 15 I crumple to the grass.

I hear someone say ‘Don’t worry guys, an ambulance is on the way.’ Guys? Plural? I open my eyes to look around and see two other guys lying on the grass.

I’m not done yet. I struggle to my feet. Lazarus rises again. I have to get out of here before the paramedics arrive. I’m scared they’ll want to make me quit.

Some guy asks if I’m sure I should continue. I take a quick glance at the 2 guys lying on the grass and mumble weakly, more to myself then him, ‘never give up’.

Walk. Run. Walk. Run. With the occasional dry heave thrown in for good measure.

I thought of my good friend and training partner, Matt, who died 50 weeks ago after crossing the finish line in a local triathlon. I choke up. I miss him. I took a moment to appreciate being alive. And healthy enough to try to do this crazy shit.

Some uber fit guy, looking dazed and confused, asks me where it all went wrong. I said that I thought it was the heat. Or maybe the humidity.

As I approach mile 24 I decide I’m not going to stop running until I get to the finish line. I’m going to empty the tank. I start digging in to run faster. Sweating returns.

At mile 25 I pick up the pace again. Now I’m really starting to hurt. But I’m passing loads of people and that feeds me emotionally. The mantra has become: Dig in. Ignore the pain. Empty the tank.

I turn the final corner and can see lights illuminating the finish line in the distance. Cheering crowds line the street. There are still a few more people I can catch in the last 400 metres. I dig in again. I am emptying the tank.

200 metres to go and there is one more guy between me and the finish. I dig in one last time and go by him fast.

50 metres to the finish and my sun glasses fall off. I stop, turn around and pick them up. He runs past me. Fuck! I sprint all out, the world starts spinning, and pass him again with 5 metres to go.

I cross the finish line at full speed into the arms of medics. They want to put in a wheel chair. I want to walk. I win, and we walk for a couple of minutes. I think I’m going to be okay.

Then things got ugly.

I recognized the signs of impending unconsciousness and knew I needed to get horizontal. Immediately. A medic told me to keep my eyes open, not pass out. She kept tapping my arm.

They put on a gurney. They are running me through the crowd. Yelling at people to get out of the way. Every bump makes my head ache. Every twist and turn more nauseous. Blackness creeps into my peripheral vision.

We arrive within the air conditioned medical center. I am immediately cold and start shaking uncontrollably. People are pulling off my clothes. I’m being wrapped in blankets and those silver cape things.

A needle is stuck into my arm and I’m hooked up to an intravenous bag of saline. My legs, back and abdomen are cramping. They give me some anti-nausea medication. I continue to shake uncontrollably.

After the second saline bag I start to come around. One of the medics asks if I’m coming back to race again next year. I’ll decide after both my big toe nails fall off in the next few days.

I am an Ironman.

Time splits:

Swim: 1:13:19

Bike: 5:54:50

Run: 5:56:13

Total time: 13:17:05

76^th of 284 men in my 45-49 age group.

To all my friends and strangers that supported me on this journey and sent good vibes my way: thank you, thank you, thank you. You’ve helped more then you know in making it about the process and not the outcome.

And to that guy who bitchily commented on one of my previous blog entry’s that I wouldn’t / couldn’t succeed and finish an Ironman: I’ve got a finisher’s medal you can suck on. Meow.

And because life is too short not to follow one’s passions, and because I want to, I have registered for Ironman Canada 2011.

Til I drop.

Gay Games Race Report

2010-08-19T14:54:00.000-07:00

It has been a whirlwind of racing the past few weeks. I had two races in one of the local race series and had a much improved bike segment and finished fourth in my age group in each race so was feeling a little more confident in my chances of getting onto the podium at the Gay Games.

Making me less confident was finding out that the guy that beat me for the gold medal at the previous Gay Games (2006, Chicago) was returning. My interrupted training and lack of taper added to my doubts about podiuming in my 45-49 age group.

Due to jet lag, I only had an hour’s sleep before the triathlon. In retrospect I definitely should have done a better job warming up as I felt very sluggish during the swim. The start was a bit rough and after about 100 metres I saw a pair of feet, slightly faster then me, I wanted to follow. Problem was some dude, swimming the same speed as me on my left, was (unintentionally) blocking my attempts to angle toward those feet and yet was not drafting off them himself. Finally I just reached across his back with my right hand to grab his left shoulder and pulled myself forward and across his back toward those feet. All’s fair in love and war. I followed those feet to past the half way point before I decided he was not taking the most direct route to the swim exit and forged my own ‘as the crow flies’ path.

Always a bit surreal is going from the swim to the bike. During the swim, I am isolated with my own thoughts, unable to verbally communicate, creating my own reality. Popping out of the water and there is the sudden sound of the spectators cheering and clapping. Abruptly I pulled from my internal world to the external. I very quickly strip down my wetsuit to my waist as I’m running as fast as I can – too fast – toward my bike. Perhaps twenty seconds later I’m at my bike and I feel totally sick. I don’t know if it was the sudden change from horizontal to vertical (I’m a delicate flower and very sensitive motion sickness), my lack of medicinal cookie, jet lag and lack of sleep, or just running too freakin hard for 20 seconds, but I felt soooo sick.

Nevertheless, onto the bike course for 4 flat loops to make 40 kms. I couldn’t push quite as hard as I would have liked because I was feeling so horrible. I was hoping it would dissipate during the bike, but no such luck. About 6 guys passed me during the bike and I figured at least 2 of them looked to be in my age group. I tried to go with them but they just rode away from me; my body was not responding – it seemed more concerned with making me feel sick. I tried as best I could to mentally block out the nausea, but it was pretty fierce.

I quickly made my way through the second transition and out onto the run. Nausea still demanding my attention. I could see 3 guys about 15 seconds ahead running together. They became my target. Very slowly I started to gain on them. But pushing my body hard for over 2 hours was not making me feel any better. In truth I was feeling even more sick. My race became very much a mental battle during the run. My body was sending the hugest “lay down!” signals I’ve experienced in quite some time, but I kept telling myself that “bronze is just ahead, keeping digging, Buttercup”. In fact, I had no idea in what position I was, but I needed that potential to exist to keep the hurt on.

One of them dropped of their pace and I caught and passed him at about 2.5 kms. I was in a world of nearly all consuming nausea by that point and forgot to look to see his age. I kept pushing as I slowly gained on the other two. The were running shoulder to shoulder and I caught them just before the half way point. I recognized one of them from the Out Games last year - a young Danish guy (where he caught me on the bike, I didn’t let him get away, and then outran him), however the other guy, a German, looked about my age. I passed them but the German guy did not drop. I could feel my pace dropping off and realized I forgotten to grab my gels for the run. The German guy came back past me – I asked his age – he laughed and said he “wasn’t going to tell” – bugger knew I was hurting and now he was teasing me – but before I could say ‘Bitch!’ he laughed again and said “42” – I said “go get ‘em”.

I made it to the finish line a hurting puppy and re-grouped with friends but I was pretty much a mess and they had to take care of me. Nausea, shaking, goose bumps. Martin, who won the overall race (again!) asked me a couple of times if he should get the paramedics but after about 20 minutes I was feeling much better and another 20 minutes later I would never have known I was sick at all. The body is a strange, perplexing, wondrous thing. At that point I was up to checking out the results board and was tickled to get a bronze medal in my age group. It made all the hurt worthwhile.

But my week of racing had only just begun – the following days I raced the 10k road race (6^th), 800 metre swim (4^th), 5,000 metres on the track (7^th), and 5k road race (bronze!). I then hopped on a flight home to race the following weekend in the Provincial long course triathlon champs where I finished 3^rd and earned a qualifying spot on the Canadian team for the World Long Course triathlon champs in Las Vegas in 2011. Then the following weekend I won my age group at the Toronto Island sprint triathlon.

And now its taper time for Ironman Louisville. Less is more so that I’ll arrive to the start line rested and ready to tackle what is widely considering the most difficult single day athletic challenge. In spite of losing 5 weeks of training in the spring and another week in early June, I’m feeling pretty fit – but not as fit as last year, nor not as fit as I was hoping when I made my goal finish time of 12 hours. For that to happen, everything has to go right for me – the weather cannot be oppressively hot and humid as is probable, I cannot have any mechanical problems, and most importantly I need my body to be having a good day and the side effects from my meds minimal. If all that happens, I can swim 1:20, bike 6:15, and run 4:15 and add 10 minutes for transitions = 12 hours.

But that is not my primary goal. Getting to the finish line before the midnight cutoff is the goal. It has been as much an emotional journey as physical during these months of preparation and I will do whatever it takes, I will never give up and am willing to go deep, deep into an unknown world of pain to accomplish my goal, to cross the finish line. There are only 2 ways to leave an ironman course – across the finish line or by ambulance. Which will it be for me?

You can follow me online on Sunday August 29 at www.ironmanlive.com

I Am A Delicate Flower

2010-07-11T02:06:00.000-07:00

“My name is Scott, and I am a delicate flower.”

There, I said it. Admitting it is half the battle, right?

OK, so after I was sick for a few days toward the end of May which necessitated a few days of zero / easy training I jumped back into heavy training. That lasted almost a week and then I was knocked down with more illness. My life came to a complete stop. And I thought to myself, ‘Jeez, Louise, my immune system is like a delicate flower’.

For much of the next two days, every time I stood up the room spun, I was hit with instant and overwhelming nausea, and within 45 seconds I was breaking out in a sweat. For much of the time, being vertical was impossible. Essentially I had a choice: lie down or fall down. Thus, I only got off the couch when absolutely necessary.

Making a slice of toast went like this: Get off the couch and walk to the kitchen holding the walls. Lie down on the floor to recover / alleviate the head spins, nausea, sweats that accompany verticalness. Wait 3 – 4 minutes for above symptoms to weaken. Stand up, remove loaf of bread and peanut butter from fridge. Lie down on the floor for 3 – 4 minutes until symptoms abate somewhat. Stand up, put slice of bread in toaster. Lie down on the floor for – well you get the idea.

Although I slowly got better, I had a full week without any training - or any other life. I then had another week and half before the bouts of nausea and head spins finally tapered off, but I managed to do some very easy workouts just to try to stem the loss of fitness. Having learned my lesson – the one where I’m a delicate flower – I did not throw myself into heavy training. I spent another week easing into hard training days with extra recovery days.

As such, I entered the Welland half ironman not tapered because I had just got back into training so was going to use the race as a training day. I swam hard the entire 2 kms and worked to stay on the toes of faster swimmers. It was hard work and about half way through there were a few moments when I wanted to back off the pace and let the swimmer go, but I heard myself saying, ‘Suck it up, Buttercup’. And then I thought, ‘I’m 15 minutes into a 5-plus hour race – it is far too early to have to start giving yourself pep talks!’ But competitive heads prevailed and I continued swimming hard to hold the draft.

I had a good transition onto the bike and set off on the 90 km flat bike course. Lots of guys in my age group passed me – my lack of fitness was showing but I was content just to be able to race. Then at 70 kms I got a flat tire so had change it which took perhaps 12-15 minutes before I was back in the saddle. That only lasted about 3 kms before it went flat too. But I had no more tubes so could only ride the rest of the way – slowly - on the rim.

By the time I got to the second transition I was near the back of the pack. But I looked forward to trying to catch as many people on the half marathon run as I could to keep it fun. I had to stop twice in the first few kms to try to adjust the insole of my racing flats to no avail: they were pinching my toes and causing me pain. Nevertheless, I kept trotting along, trying to ignore the pain of every step. By the time I got to the finish line I had big muther blisters and swollen toes on each foot. But, I was happy just to be able to race.

The following weekend I did another half-ironman, again without any taper, so I started the race a little bit tired. I had a mediocre swim, a poor bike because my bike fitness really sucks and lots of people passed me, and an acceptable run in which nobody passed me. It was the first day of the heat wave and many people started to struggle during the run. Surprisingly, I tolerated the heat well on that day and actually felt the best I had ever felt after a long race (read: not nauseous and vomiting) so that was encouraging, being a delicate flower and all.

So what have I learned from these repeated illnesses? My muscles, tendons and such can tolerate the heavy training. Likewise, my cardiovascular system can also handle the many hours of swim / bike / run training. Even my brain, which houses motivation, is ready, willing and able to deal with the physical and mental demands of ironman training. My immune system - not so much. Quelle surprise, eh?

American Triple T Race Report: Sick Puppy

2010-05-25T13:59:00.000-07:00

For those not in the know, this is 4 races in 3 days and totals just slightly more then the ironman distance. Many folks use it as a training weekend for their ironman race this summer. Some are racing in the team division, but like most, I’m doing the solo version.

It all starts late Friday afternoon with the prologue super sprint: 250 metre swim, 5 mile bike, 1 mile run. Saturday consists of an olympic distance race (1500 metre swim, 40 km bike, 10 km run) in the morning followed by another olympic distance race in mid-afternoon. The twist for this third race is that the bike is first, followed by the swim, and ending with the run. Then Sunday tops it all off with a half-ironman race: 2 km swim, 90 km bike, 21.1 km run. The bike courses are notorious for the hills, hills, and more hills.

Lady luck smiled on me the previous day as I managed to snag a room at the sold out lodge at the race site when a team pulled out of the event at the last moment. Since I had only entered the race a month earlier, the closest hotel I could find was 40 minutes away but I was able to cancel my reservation without penalty. Now I could just ride my bike to each race. Sweet.

I was using the races as a training weekend toward my 2 major goals: Gay Games olympic triathlon in Cologne on August 1^st and Ironman Louisville 4 weeks later. As such, the Triple T races were to finish off a training block and to be followed by some very easy – and well deserved - recovery days. So the day before I drove down I had a hard training day on the hottest day so far this year in my ‘hood: 45 minute swim, 5:45 bike + 30 min run = 7 hours. Waking up at 3 am to drive after that is friggin’ difficult, I tell ya.

Having spent 10 hours driving to the race site in Shawnee State Park in southern Ohio (which included a frantic hour in Columbus locating a triathlon store and buying a wetsuit because 3 hours into the drive I realized I forgot to pack the one I had – duh!) I pulled into a parking spot at the lodge as other athletes milled about.

As I get out of my car I asked the guy in the next parking spot where the front desk was located, as he turned to answer me I recognized him: Alain, my nemesissy from the Outgames last summer in Denmark (where he crushed me in the cycling time trial race in spite of crashing, but I gained revenge by whipping his ass in the triathlon). He was racing in the team division with his buddy Mark and they registered their team name as ‘Canadian Fags’ – so appropo - and ballsy in the homophobic bible belt. Mark would break a toe in race #2 but that didn’t seem to slow him down much – he finished the rest of the tough and challenging weekend.

Then lady luck frowned at me. As I settled into my room and started to prep for the prologue race I started to feel sick. The sick feeling reminded me of when I get too little sleep and since I had 2 nights in a row of short sleep, I figured I just needed a good night’s snooze. By the time the race started I was feeling pretty crappy. My original intention was to make this race as easy as possible – I was going to go slow and not stress my body. I was not ‘racing’ and didn’t care how many people passed me. During the race I actually felt ok but within minutes of finishing the sick feeling returned. After inhaling some food and my meds I was in bed by 7 pm and sleeping shortly thereafter.

I woke up shortly before 6 am feeling worse. I managed to force down a couple of bites of food with my meds but puked most of it all up a few minutes later when I was brushing my teeth. Once in the transition and set up, I laid down beside my bike and debated whether or not I should start the race.

The debate went like this: I drove 10 hours for these races. Yeah, but I was so sick for 5 weeks in the spring I couldn’t train, I don’t want to get that sick again. But this doesn’t feel like the same type of sickness as before, so if I take it real easy during the race I’ll be okay. This is only a training weekend, it doesn’t matter in the larger picture, being healthy 2 months from now is what matters. Go back to your room. But I paid a $250 entry fee, I don’t want to waste it. Nor do I want to pass out and end up in the hospital. This is why I bought travel health insurance. Racing while I’m sick will only make me sicker. Suck it up, Buttercup.

I wandered down to the start line. As competitors lined up on the beach chatting and excited to get started, I lay atop a picnic table as the debate raged on in my head. Finally I dragged my ass down to the beach and pulled a friend aside and asked her if she was cool with me referring paramedics to her should things go from bad to worse for me. I was feeling that rough. But here’s the strange thing: within moments of starting to swim I felt okay. So I continued on very easily, constantly reminding myself to hold back, slow down, stay relaxed.

I felt dizzy when I stood up after the first loop of the swim and again at the finish and bounced off the railing on the way to my bike but otherwise was feeling much better then before I started. The hills on the bike course made keeping my effort low a bit of a challenge but I managed to consume some calories and fluids. The run course was also hilly and there is just no 2 ways about it – running up hills requires effort, but I kept plodding along at what I was calling a jogging pace and finished race #2 feeling pretty good. Once back in my room I laid down for a nap and felt mildly sickish with alternating cold and hot periods. I was definitely fighting some sort of bug but overall was doing better, but not great.

I had another lie down in transition waiting for race #3 to start and gave myself permission to quit if I started to feel worse during the race. But again, as soon as I started I felt better. I took it very easy on the bike – well as much as one could in spite of the hills – and then enjoyed swimming very easily – a number of people had problems with cramping, but I hardly use my legs in the swim so avoided that experience - before heading out onto the tough run course for the second time that day. By the time I got to the turn around on the run, I was feeling good and figured that I must have fought off the bug. While some were walking the hills I just kept trotting along, keeping my effort as low as possible, happy that I was feeling good, that I was over being sick, and looking forward to the next day’s long race.

That feeling didn’t last long. Within 5 minutes of finishing I was feeling sick again and soon worse then before. Damn. I went back to my room and curled up under the bed covers. When Alain and Mark came to fetch me for dinner I said I could only manage to make it the lodge’s restaurant, I was not up to driving 30 minutes to eat in town. Luckily the lodge was serving all you could eat pasta, so we headed down for some spaghetti and fettuccini, but I had to leave abruptly - I was afraid I was gonna puke right there in the restaurant. Not so appetizing for the other diners.

By this time I realized that doing a half ironman on a hilly course the next morning was probably not going to happen. Even the prospect of driving for 10 hours seemed daunting. As I drifted off to sleep I hoped that I would feel good in the morning, but I was not counting on it. I could hear my doctor’s voice from my last appointment echoing in my head, “you know that your heavy training negatively impacts your immune system?”

Come morning I was still feeling sick, so wisely packed my stuff and headed home. Disappointed that I didn’t finish what I started but content that I had made the right decisions along the way. Pleased that I had done 3 of the races in a very controlled fashion. I’m also happy with how my placing improved with each race. Of the almost 400 competitors, I had the 264^th fastest time in the first race, the 206^th fastest in the second race, and the 112^th fastest in the third race. Not bad considering how sick I was and how much I was holding back.

Special shout out to my gal pal Linnea and her bf Glenn who are racing Ironman Brazil this weekend. Linnea is a major contender for the win in her age group, tough as nails, and very consistent no matter how difficult conditions get. Go get 'em girl!

The Good News Is...

2010-05-07T16:37:00.000-07:00

“The good news is that we didn’t find anything that would make you sick. The bad news is that we didn’t find what was making you sick.”

So went the beginning of my most recent doctor’s appointment. He went on to say that no tumour was found – whew! – and that although I have thickening of my left adrenal gland wall, it is not indicative of a medical condition. Since its been 5 weeks since I’ve experienced any symptoms associated with the 5 weeks of illness and I’ve returned to full-on training – and recovering from hard days very well, better in fact then I was recovering pre-illness – meant that mentally I had pretty much put the illness in the past. I told him that I was just back to the med induced nausea and all other symptoms had ceased.

Having a diagnosis would have been desirable. Knowing if the potential for a future bout of illness existed would be helpful. But whatever, I just bought travel insurance in case I have to cancel my flight to Cologne for the Gay Games. I tried to make that my summation to close the appointment and got up to leave – I wanted to ride my bike home before the sun hid behind the office towers and it got colder – but my doc wanted to chat about the notion of switching my medications to see if it would alleviate the nausea caused by my medications.

I told him my concerns were around cognitive impairment and accelerated brain aging; both found in some HIV+ people taking ARV medications. I am fearful that switching meds would create an opportunity for a new medication to negatively impact my brain function. I’ve learned to live with and manage the bouts of nausea for years and would much rather continue to deal with them then take a chance on getting stupider. Better to deal with the devil you know, you know?

I had a meeting recently that speaks volumes to the various responses to the medications that suppress (but do not cure, as too many people mistakenly think) HIV. About 2 hours before the meeting I had a bout of nausea and laid down on my office floor for about 20 minutes until it passed and then I was good to go again. The meeting was with a number of people including a man who has been HIV+ for 20+ years and has much experience with various ARV medications. He declared to a recently diagnosed individual that it was “rare” to experience any side effects from the medications. I was so shocked I nearly had to pick my jaw up off the floor - as did my colleague: he threw up yellow bile every morning for 2 years before switching medications. Different experiences. Different realities.

Speaking of cognitive impairment, last week I forgot to take my medications three mornings in a row. Of course, I don’t realize this until I go to take the evening dose and find the morning dose still in my daily pill box. This is not good. HIV, being a sly retrovirus, can quickly become resistant to medication if the levels of those medications are too low in the body. I don’t think I’ve missed 3 doses in a year and to miss 3 mornings in a row is perturbing.

Not perturbing is my training. It has been going pretty well in spite of losing strength and speed during my illness. I’ve been focusing on building up my endurance, culminating with my longest workout thus far occurring a few days ago: a 60 minute swim and then couple of hours later a 5 hour bike (that included 12 climbs up the Niagara Escarpment) followed immediately by a 60 minute run for a total of 7 hours of training. I could tell during that workout that my fitness had taken another leap forward as the climbs didn’t seem nearly as steep as the previous week and I didn’t feel nearly as trashed as I usually do after that long an effort.

No doubt when the weather gets warmer my suffering will increase as my blonde / fair skin genetics do not respond well to heat and humidity. As a kid I would get severe heat stroke if I ran around too much on hot sunny days. Vomiting and semi-delirious, I would spend ours on the bathroom floor with a damp cloth on my forehead and eyes until my body recovered. I can distinctly remember how comforting and easing the coolness of the tile floor felt against my hot skin.

I just googled the average temperature of Louisville in August. The odds of the temperature being over 90 degrees Fahrenheit / 32.2 Celsius on race day? One in three. Uh oh. Better remember to pack my sun bonnet.

Back in the Saddle Again

2010-03-28T16:41:00.000-07:00

I was hoping to give this blog entry a title with a super positive spin, something like – “If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands” – because I hadn’t had any ‘anxiety’ attack episodes for an entire week, only bouts of nausea – and they seemed to be lessening as the days passed - and mild abdominal pain that failed to recur mid-week. Sunny skies.

Alas, I had another episode late Saturday for 30 minutes, so my mini theory that the episodes had occurred over 10 days with their intensity peaking in the middle – such that if graphed it would reveal a bell curve distribution - is doubtful. Unless I attribute the most recent episode as an ‘outlier’.

I saw an internal medicine doc this week and he said that my primary doc was already doing all the rights things – “very thorough” - to check for heart trouble or that rare tumour. He also suggested that I could be having anxiety attacks without the anxiety and I told him I was totally cool and perfectly happy with that theory.

Lots of people seem to live with anxiety attacks – and with the fear/flight symptoms, which must really suck – so I’m fine with that diagnosis and clean urine and CT scan results will support it.

But my own personal unscientific theory goes like this: whatever was making me ill initially – and from which I’m slowly, but decidedly, recovering - infected or affected my adrenal gland(s) and now they are easily aroused and periodically release adrenaline for a while. I figure as I continue to recover – I still seem to need 10+ hours of sleep at night – they will fade away.

Also inspiring a lot of hope that I was getting over it all, was the return of my energy and ability to start training again to no ill effect. In the last 7 days I’ve managed to ease back into training:

3 swims - 30, 40, then 50 minutes, total 2 hours – continuous, very easy pace

3 bikes - 60, 70, then 80 minutes, total 3.5 hours – continuous, very easy pace

3 runs – 30, 40, then 50 minutes, total 2 hours – continuous, very easy pace

3 weights / core workouts

Compared to my pre-illness week:

4 swims – total 3:35 hours – continuous, easy pace

5 bikes – total 6:45 hours – hard days would include intensity

4 runs – total 5:45 hours – hard days would include hills

3 weights / core workouts

I’m aiming to test my body a little with a ‘real’ training day on the last day of March: a 60 minute swim in the a.m., then later a brick workout of a 2.5 hour bike with a 30 minute run. It will mark my first hard training day in exactly 6 weeks. It also means that Ironman Louisville is just over 21 weeks away. And as long as nothing major goes wrong between now and then – like I get too eager and over train and suffer a health setback or injury - I should be able to get enough fitness to get to the start line. Emotion will get me to the finish line.
Giddy up!

Ambulance ride and the Grim Reaper

2010-03-22T04:07:00.000-07:00

Well, it has been an up and down week – physically and emotionally.

When all this started 5+ weeks ago, the most severe symptoms were profound fatigue and feeling very crappy all the time (much to my chagrin, I don’t have a better word then crappy). But not nauseous, as I never felt like I was going to vomit and the crappy feeling didn’t seem to emanate from my stomach. As the fatigue and crappy feeling started to lift in the last couple of weeks, I was able to be more functional.

Things have changed in the last week or so. I now have 1 or 2 bouts of nausea each day that last about an hour – but no longer experience the crappy feeling and instead of being very fatigued, I am merely low on energy most of the time. I also have sporadic abdominal pain, mostly on my left side. And some of the anxiety attack-like episodes – I say ‘like’ because I don’t experience the psychological fear/flee symptom - have become more intense and longer in duration. During a recent episode people asked me if I was okay to drive because I was shaking so vigorously. As I shook in the check out line of the grocery store, the cashier asked me if I was cold as she glanced outside at our sunniest, warmest day yet this year.

The night after my last blog post I had a severe episode of racing heart, rapid breathing, sweaty palms, and shaking. Even though the symptoms were more intense then any other previous episode, I assumed it would also pass in less then 10 minutes. Instead, it became worse – my abdominal and thigh muscles also started shaking – pretty much my whole body just trembled uncontrollably – and after about another 10 minutes without abatement I decided it was time to call an ambulance. Even though paramedics arrived in just a few minutes, the rush of adrenaline had ceased and I was left feeling only mildly (comparatively!) trembley and with slightly elevated blood pressure, which, 5 minutes later, was in the normal range. Once in the emergency room they ran blood tests and did a chest x-ray – the same things my own doc had already done – but no clues were evident. However, I now have an appointment this week with an Internist at an internal medicine clinic – which my doc is happy about.

I also went for a chest/heart CT scan and stress test this week – they said they would call me directly within 48 hours if anything was amiss and they didn’t so I’m assuming my heart is not the problem. Next up is a CT scan of my abdomen and should show any adrenal gland tumours. I am also about to start a 24 hour urine collection for analysis which is the third piece of the puzzle in determining if I have this very rare tumour.

Since it is very rare to have a pheochromocytoma tumour and they are difficult to diagnose, I asked my doc what his second best guess was and he said anxiety attacks even though I don’t have the psychological symptoms. Anxiety attacks without the anxiety. Just attacks. Lovely.

Actually, I really like that theory much better and have been trying to justify it – some of the onset of these episodes have been in social situations (albeit non-stressful) and the episode I had at 4:30am yesterday woke me out of a dream about my running buddy Brian who died totally unexpectedly 2 days earlier at only age 49. Seems like a strong anxiety link to me. And much less daunting then a tumour. But doesn’t really explain my earlier symptoms and only sort of explains abdominal pain and bouts of nausea.

Saturday, after the early morning episode and a brief one mid-morning, I felt better as the day went on and I noticed that my appetite came back – also, no sweaty palms or other symptoms – I even rode my bike to meet friends for lunch – and by the time I went to bed that night I was feeling quite good and started to think again about easing back into training. I even dared to think that maybe I could still make it to the start line of Ironman Louisville.

Alas, another bout of nausea yesterday morning followed by abdominal pain when I tried to ride my bike has derailed those thoughts – hopefully the Internist I see this week will get me back on that exercise train. Derailed, train – get it? Crack me up.

Losing another friend suddenly and unexpectedly really drives home the need – again - to enjoy each day, each moment. Before the inevitable visit from the grim reaper that we all will eventually receive.

Rolling with the punches,

Scott

From Saddle Sores to Bed Sores: Felled by the Flu?

2010-03-12T17:10:00.000-08:00

Well, not really – I was never on the bike enough to get saddle sores, nor immobile long enough to get bed sores, but I have been battling something that I was attributing to the flu. And if I don’t get better soon, getting to the start line of Ironman Louisville is in serious jeopardy.

So that’s why I haven’t updated in so long – 4 weeks ago today I woke up feeling crappy, not nauseous, just very crappy without energy and spent the next several days on the couch. Kind of pissed that I got the flu again – I just had the (self-diagnosed) flu 3 weeks earlier, but ultimately I was glad I had gotten those H1N1 and seasonal shots before the holidays.

So after spending another 4 days sick I was able to resume training / work and then BAM! - 2 days later I feel very crappy and quite fatigued, with periodic shivering and chills, and with a sore throat. Since this latter symptom was new, I thought that I must have contracted yet another flu bug – grrr.

After another 2 days on the couch – I think the Olympics started at this point – then I had a good day and did a very easy bike, just spinning. I was being very careful not to stress my body since – I figured – it had just fought off 2 flu bugs.

Felt ok the next morning so went for a very easy swim in the morning, but toward the end of my easy evening run I started to feel crappy. I spent the next 8 days on the couch – profoundly fatigued, feeling very crappy, with periodic shivering/chills and dozing while the Olympics played on the tv. I went to my doc and got blood work but only my amylase was elevated.

Since then I’ve had an increasing number of good days – when I can get stuff done, and have walked for an hour and felt ok – and fewer bad days when I’m forced to the couch wondering what’s happening with my body.

Yesterday I went to see my doc again and was telling him about my symptoms including an increased awareness of ringing in my ears. I had forgotten about the shivering/chills – when I suddenly started to tremble like I do when I get cold, so that reminded me to tell him while I put my coat back on to alleviate what I thought was shivering.

Then my heart rate started to race, my chest felt tight, my breathing became rapid and I felt physically anxious, but not emotionally. And that’s what I told the doc, so we went into his exam room and he took my blood pressure and heart rate while I continued to shake, my palms sweated, and my breathing was rapid.

He said that I was exhibiting symptoms of an anxiety attack and I said – between rapid breaths - that I thought that that was accompanied by psychological symptoms as well. He continued monitoring me and after perhaps a total of 7 minutes the symptoms started to abate and a few minutes later I was feeling mostly normal except a little trembley.

The doc then asked me if I had felt like I had to flee the room during the symptoms and I told him no. He said something is going on – could be my adrenal glands and mentioned that there was a very rare form of tumour that can grow on them – or it could be my heart since highly trained athletes may experience heart problems and symptoms differently then most folks.

So the upshot is that one day next week I spend 5-6 hours for an abdominal CT scan and a stress test. Today, so far, I’ve been feeling not too bad, so this afternoon I did an easy 45 minutes spin on the bike and so far, so good - although I can tell that my body is not running smoothly – something is definitely amiss and hopefully we can get it sorted out so I can get back to training.

I figure that with my lost fitness and the fact that I’m going to have to very gently ease my way back into training once I get on a recovery plan, that the latest I can earnestly start training again and still be able to finish the Ironman – the 12 hour time goal is becoming a distant dream – is sometime in April. Otherwise I will have to try to push too much training into too little time and risk injury – or more likely – illness. Safety first!

Stay tuned - now that I'm more functional I'll get more regular with the blog and let you know how the medical testing goes - I know I'll be happier when a diagnosis is made and we can get a plan of action happening.

Yours, with sweaty palms.

Graceful I Ain't

2010-01-29T17:45:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-22T16:41:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-08T14:20:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-01T13:15:00.000-08:00

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?

Transitions: Life, Lemonade and Triathlon

2009-12-18T09:32:00.000-08:00

In triathlon racing there is a transition zone; an area where athletes transform / change from swimmers to cyclists and then from cyclists to runners. The goal of the athlete is to get through the transitions, T1 and T2, as quickly as possible. It is free time you can gain over your competitors.

In life we go through many transitions, some of our own making and we eagerly seek, like choosing to pursue higher education or to change careers. While other transitions are forced upon us: mourning the loss of family or friend, or being laid off from your job, being diagnosed with a serious illness. Regardless of where the locus of control lies that initiates the transition, either internal or external, adaptation to the new situation is fundamental for success. It seems it’s always about Darwin’s theory.

I write of this because today is the last day of my college program and marks the first day of my transition from full time student working only part time to a full time job seeker. This transition period is a time for me to integrate my previous experience and knowledge with my newly acquired skills and insight. Most crucially in my opinion, is that my personal values are also addressed in my work. My challenge, shared by many no doubt, is constructing a career – and life – that incorporates all these aspects to satisfaction. Essentially, I believe we seek to lead an authentic life: one of our own creation.

For me this includes not having to hide my HIV+ status. Why? Quite simply, if I am hiding my status I am giving it more power over my life. It is acquiescing to the pressure of stigma, of discrimination, and of AIDSphobia. It is giving in to fear. Been there, done that, ain’t goin’ back and nobody can make me. Life is far too short. By being public about being HIV+ I will keep the locus of control – the power - internal.

Instead, during this transition period, I am going to set about constructing reality from a dream. A future where I turn the tables on my personal battle with HIV. I will make lemonade from the lemon. I will use my HIV+ status to raise awareness and funds, to breakdown discrimination and stigma, and to facilitate personal growth in others and in myself. I will effect change. And I will do it through the power of the spoken word, through motivational speaking.

My mantra as I embark on this new transition, this new life path? The only reason to give a speech is to change the world.

Race Schedule 2010: Giddy Up, Buttercup

2009-12-11T17:53:00.000-08:00

Every one is different.

Jeez Louise, that’s a very Mensaian insight. As a long time student of the Thoroughbred Racing Form, I have learned that different horses react differently to the same training regime, and the most successful trainers are able to ‘read’ a horse’s often subtle reactions to training, and based on this, adjust training patterns and intensities accordingly so that the horse raced to its full potential. Move a horse to a different trainer and the horse’s performance may improve or decline depending on how that trainer’s workout plan ‘fits’ with that individual horse’s natural training pattern. Successful trainers adapt the training to fit the horse and not vice versa.

Much the same can be said about people’s reaction to ARVs – the medications that suppress HIV. People react differently to the medications in terms of side effects. For myself, I have been dealing with intermittent, mostly unpredictable nausea as a side effect of the medications for years. Since there seems to be little rhyme or reason to the onset of nausea, I have had to learn to live in the moment more. Get things done while I’m feeling well, and roll with the punches when I feel like crap. For me, adaptability is the key to successfully living with side effects.

But there is no getting around it, the side effects are a burden, and I got a greater understanding of the depth of their impact on my psyche recently by my (over)reaction to a friend’s good news. He recently had to start on ARVs and told me he had no side effects whatsoever. My knee jerk response? “Fuck you”. We both immediately laughed at my envy - and the absurdity of life.

Thus, the same can be said about triathletes – a training program that works for you and gets you fit, may not work as well for me. One need only consider the results of Tereza Macel. Tereza was a strong swimmer and cyclist and lead many races at the start of the run only to be hunted down before the finish line. Tereza had been a moderately successful professional triathlete for the previous decade, no doubt having been trained by a number of different coaches, before joining triathlon’s most (in)famous coach at his base in Asia almost a year ago. My, how things change: since joining the new coach, Tereza won Ironman Lake Placid in July, Ironman Canada in August and then finished an excellent 4^th at the World Champs in Hawaii. Imagine what her athletic resume would have been had she hooked up with him years earlier. Her coach is a former thoroughbred horse trainer.

Some triathletes will enter Ironman races without swimming, biking, or running those individual distances in their training and do quite well. Other triathletes – on the same training plan – will end up crumpled on the side of the course wishing for the sweet relief of death. Experience – in training and racing – has taught me that I cannot suddenly do extra hours of exercise. My body, not being that of a ‘natural’ athlete, demands incremental increases in intensity and duration. As a former fat bastard, if I’m going to be able to run a marathon after swimming 3.8kms and biking 180kms, I need to train up to, and a little beyond, those distances otherwise my body will break down and I’ll be looking for a taxi (just kidding) or ambulance (not kidding).

So what has all this got to do with my race schedule? I need to get myself a horse trainer as a coach, of course.

Race Schedule:

My two “A” races, my two goal races, are Gay Games (A) and Ironman Louisville (A+). But I am training through all races and only tapering for Ironman Louisville.

Note the preference of doing an iron distance race 3 weeks before my A+ race. Any opinions or thoughts, beyond taking out a life insurance policy on me?

All races in Ontario unless noted otherwise:

May 21-23: American Triple T (4 races, 3 days!), Portsmouth, Ohio – early in the season, this one’s gonna hurt!

Jun 6: Woodstock (1k swim, 32k bike, 8k run)

Jun 27: Welland Half Ironman (2k swim, 90k bike, 21.1k run)

Jul 4: Peterborough Half Ironman (2k swim, 90k bike, 21.1k run)

Jul 12: Gravenhurst (1.5k swim, 40k bike, 10k run)

Jul 25: Bala Falls (750m swim, 30k bike, 7.5k run)

Aug 1: Gay Games (1.5k swim, 40k bike, 10k run), Cologne, Germany – hope to hit the podium!

Aug 8: The Outlaw Iron Distance (3.8k swim, 180k bike, 42.2k run), Nottingham, England

Or plan B:

Aug 8: Bracebridge Half Ironman (2k swim, 90k bike, 21.1k run)

Aug 15: Toronto Island (750m swim, 30k bike, 7.5k run)

Aug 29: Ironman Louisville (3.8k swim, 180k bike, 42.2k run), Louisville, Kentucky – the little engine that could: <12 hours

Sept 11: Wasaga Beach (1.5k swim, 40k bike, 10k run)

Sept 19: Lakeside (1.5k swim, 40k bike, 10k run)

Giddy up, Buttercup.

Pretty, Witty and Gay

2009-12-04T17:27:00.000-08:00

Don’t you just hate the type? I know, I know, its really just jealousy because they’re more attractive, or at least less unattractive, then myself. And cleverer – and not just book smarts either, but interpersonal and street smarts too.

But, I can hold my own in the gay department. I’m told that kittens know I’m gay. I’m so gay that I assume it’s self-evident to one and all. So I’m always shocked when anyone who has known me for a while says they didn’t know I was gay (ed. Ha, as if). My knee jerk response is “What? Did you just meet me?” I’m mean, like really, even Helen Keller knows I’m gay. Haven’t you heard my ‘accent’, the way I talk? The way I walk? Hell, for that matter, the way I run?

I’m not making that up – a friend and I went to a chi running clinic and after introduction to the concept and some indoor technique work the group went outside where we were videotaped while we ran about 50 meters so that we could then later analyze our running technique.

My friend, who shall remain nameless to protect his queer rep, is also gay but not ‘visible minority’ gay if you know what I mean. He’s – dare I say it – very stereotypically straight acting and looking. Since he would score so low on the gaydar some might even say he was gay challenged. Poor thing.

Anyhoo, as each participant ran down the path, the chi running instructor / coach would provide live commentary and analysis to the rest of the group on running styles, form and technique. She would say stuff like, ‘he carries his hands too high’ or ‘ she has low knee lift’ or ‘he should keep his elbows in’. When it was my turn her comment was ‘oh, he’s gay’. My friend said that she did not say in a homophobic or derogatory manner, but was just continuing her running style analysis. Just a knee jerk reaction I guess.

I remember the first time I heard my voice on tape. I was about 12 or 13 years old. My first brief thought was ‘who’s the gay guy’ followed immediately by ‘that’s me’ followed by ‘I’m the gay guy’. Didn’t spend much time in the self-denial phase. Didn’t have to, the pump was already primed. When my family moved when I was about 10, I had to convince many of my new classmates, strongly argue my case, that I was indeed a boy and not a girl. I can still hear one kid saying – totally sincerely – “are you sure?” ‘Only that your IQ is a double digit’ was my retort. He didn’t get it.

That is just one example of many times I have been mistaken for a girl. The most recent was during a race this past summer. It was a very small field near the cottage, 60 odd people, and we all started in the water at the same time – I think I was ninth out of the water, passed a couple of people in transition and was soon 4^th on the bike and slowly gaining on 3^rd who seemed to be looking back at me quite often, almost as if he couldn’t believe I was gaining on him. When I finally caught him he said, “Oh, I thought you were a girl”. Hmmm - does this mean I bike gay too? Didn’t hang around to ask him though, just pushed on harder so he could see the girly guy out bike and out run him. Take that.

Tangent - don’t know if you saw it in the media, but there was some kerfuffle again about gays in sport. The “hard-nosed” president and general manager of the Toronto Maple Leafs (they’re a hockey team) publicly supported his gay son. A father supports and provides unconditional love to gay son is news. Harrumph, he says cynically. Progress, he says hopefully whilst looking askant at Uganda.

Something Spiritually Sexy

2009-11-27T18:18:00.000-08:00

I did not have a personal definition of the word ‘spiritual’ for the longest time. For me, the word was packed with religiosity and based on belief in angels and other ethereal beings. So not my cup of tea. I like mine green and evidence based. Then I went to a workshop on spirituality conducted for, and facilitated by, HIV+ people about 6 years ago. If memory serves there were about 20 people, mostly men, in the group.

After introductions and a feeling of safety, confidentiality and mutual respect and support had been established, the facilitator spoke briefly about the inherent subjectiveness when attempting to define spirituality. The facilitator then asked each participant to state their personal definition of spirituality. Some people did indeed refer to a god or some higher power, albeit socially constructed in the context of religion. Others spoke about a sense of being part of a whole of the materials of the universe. Others expressed connections to family, friends and/or community as being spiritual. But none of those seemed to quite speak to me; to what my mind was conjuring.

Soon it was going to be my turn to share and I struggled to understand my own definition of spirituality. I turned it over and over in my mind and kept returning to the same place, the same mental picture. But it didn’t seem to be a profound or insightful or thought provoking place, so I hesitated to accept it as my own definition; surely there was something more sexy? I let my mind free associate, think divergently, yet I still came back to the same mental picture.

But when I mentally stepped back to take a more objective perspective, recognized and then set aside my ego’s emotional reaction, I was able to accept where my personal definition of spirituality kept taking me: running. It is freeing. And meditative. And exhilarating. It is energizing and tiring. It is a contradiction. (Oh, here’s some instant insight; so am I. Wonder if that’s part of the attraction?)

For me, for HIV+ me, running is also therapeutic. For at least 2 reasons. Firstly, it often helps alleviate nausea. As I have mentioned before, I find mild aerobic exercise suppresses my nausea. Hallelujah. (He said facetiously.)

Secondly, studies have shown that 40% of people on ARVs – the medications that suppress HIV - have mild cognitive impairment as a side effect. I was shocked and disturbed when I learned this at a presentation at the International AIDS Conference last year. But – and this is where I’m hanging my hat - exercise is proven to create and strengthen brain neurons and I’m a big believer in brain plasticity. So I figure it’s a zero sum game for me at worst, and there’s a 60% chance I’m smarter. How’s that for (self-delusional?) logic? (He asked rhetorically.)

Running is my escape, my sanctuary, my therapy. There is nothing better then running in the morning as the sun rises. Unfortunately, as a triathlete, run training is usually done after the other swim and bike training so that my body is used to running on tired legs, so running first thing in the morning is a real treat. It’s the small things in life, eh?

A close second is running during snowstorms. Absolutely love it. Especially on deserted country roads. Peacefulness in swirling snow.

Maybe it is sexy, spiritually speaking?

I have often said that I could live, if I had to, without swimming, and biking, but have a hard time conceiving of a future that doesn’t include running. It makes me sad to think of a time when I will not be able to run. Running, and its emotional and physical and cognitive effects, are integral to who I am, to my self identity.

It is when I am running that I most often hear myself say, “It is good to be alive”.

My Mother: Tractor Pull Queen

2009-11-20T16:41:00.000-08:00

The alarm goes off at 5am, but I’m already half awake, listening to talk radio, callers blathering on about aliens and crop circles and 9/11 conspiracy theories. I drag myself out of bed, trot across the heated floor, which the soles of my hard working feet relish, and throw a slice of bread in the toaster.

Spread some peanut butter and jam on it and plop myself in front of the tv to watch the morning weather forecast. Midway through breakfast I swallow the 3 little pills that keep me from certain death and mutter to myself as I do twice each day; “Dream as if you will live forever. Live as if you will die today.” The dog looks up at me to see if I’m talking to her.

I get dressed, grab my backpack, and head out the door. It’s dark. And cold. And raining. I turn on my front and rear bike lights and start pedaling toward the pool to get an hour of swim training in before work. As I head downhill the wind chill effect drops the temperature below zero Celsius and I pedal harder to generate some body heat. The cold wind makes my eyes water and tears threaten to freeze on my cheeks.

You may be wondering: Why do I subject myself to this torture to train for triathlon?

Because it’s a hell of lot easier then the alternative.

Soon after I started taking ARVs I discovered that mild exercise very often alleviates the frequent nausea I experience as a side effect of the medications. Hang around the house too long in the morning after I take my meds and the nausea may be more intense and prolonged. So it’s ‘Giddy up Buttercup’ to get the heart pumping, the sweat flowing, and to my mind, the medication toxins with them.

But that’s not the whole story. It doesn’t explain my passion for triathlon. To understand that obsession (‘passion’ and ‘obsession’ are interchangeable, n’est-ce pas?) one must consider my childhood experiences and my parent’s influence.

As a young child, my parents raced stock cars on the local dirt tracks. This was my first exposure to the thrill of competition. Later, after we moved to a farm, my parents became involved in tractor pulls and from there, their interest has currently evolved into truck pull competitions, each with their own pulling truck and more trophies then can be humbly displayed. Years ago a reporter for the Toronto Star wrote an article about my mother and titled it the Tractor Pull Queen, I kid you not.

When I first moved to the city to attend university I had to explain to the city slickers what was involved in tractor pull competitions, which is: they hook a tractor up to a weighted sled, the weight moves forward as the sled is pulled, and they see who’s tractor can pull it the farthest. For my own entertainment, this quickly morphed into: ‘my mother, competing against men, straps herself to a tractor and pulls it as far as she can, beating all of the men and that’s how she got the title Tractor Pull Queen’.

As well, my maternal grandfather started taking me to the thoroughbred horse races when I was about ten. This further exposed me to a competitive environment. Sometimes we would stop at his alcoholics anonymous meeting on the way. As such, I first attended an AA meeting at about age ten. It was purely for my edification. It is the only time I have gone to an AA meeting. I’m not alcoholic; I don’t go to the meetings. I don’t go to Shriner’s meetings either.

So it is from this early exposure to competition that its seed was planted in me. But triathlon is about more then just competing against others. Triathlon is really about competing against yourself. To set goals and work toward them. To master 3 different skill sets and training routines while considering them holistically. To transition quickly from one sport to the next. And then the next. To manage time to train and work and pursue social and familial fun.

Triathlon is about testing your physical limits, and mental fortitude, in a (usually) non-lethal environment. To see if you can go faster. Or farther. It is about pushing through the pain and exhaustion to reach the finish line.

Triathlon, whether training or racing, is really about discovering who you are – your true authentic self – especially when the going gets tough. When the only reason to keep digging into your physical and emotional reservoirs is because you want to know yourself. And discover how deep your willing to dig to achieve your goals.

Sounds a lot like life.

Triathlon is primal. Night sweats are modern.

2009-11-13T17:09:00.000-08:00

The other night I was watching the science show Nova on PBS – it was about our evolution and how we became bipedal. The theory goes like this: our ancestors succeeded because they had access to meat and fat that allowed our species to grow big brains. To catch this meat they would track and chase an animal to its exhaustion and then easily kill it. Unlike our naked ape selves, having lost much of our body hair to promote sweating and internal heat regulation, hairy animals cannot perspire through their skin and unless they stop running and pant, they eventually overheat. Our lack of body hair is an adaptation to the long distance running necessary to secure high calorie food. The documentary included a video clip of bush men from Africa hunting for food: chasing an antelope-ish type animal for 4 to 8 hours until it had overheated and could run no more and became an easy target for their spears. This is known as persistence hunting. It reminded me of triathlon.

It is a primal urge within us: the hunter chasing its prey. The early human hunter exhibiting controlled patience in the chase, waiting for the prey to weaken, stumble and crumble before going in for the kill. For countless generations, our predecessors engaged in this seemingly oxymoronic activity of aerobic patience to stalk the hunted. Much the same can be said about ironman triathletes. (No, not the moronic part.) In a race that requires hours of continuous swimming, biking and running, it is aerobic patience that needs to be managed to maximize results. However, countering this pragmatic approach to racing and pacing is the strong emotional desire of catching the prey; the next competitor. Get excited and go too fast too early catching ‘prey’ and a few hours later the infamous bonk sets in and the hunter becomes the hunted. Be forewarned Wile E. Coyote.

Then I started thinking about the whole struggle for existence / survival of the fittest thing, and how the HIV/AIDS pandemic is part of that struggle in our world. And in me. As evidenced by another bout of night sweats like you wouldn’t believe. Last night, for the third night in a row, I awoke drenched in sweat. Literally dripping off me as I walked to get a towel. Even though I have experienced night sweats on and off for years now, I am still amazed by the sheer quantity that comes out of my body. Within my body, HIV persistently struggles to exist and replicate in spite of the 3 powerful antiretroviral medications I ingest daily. Me and meds vs. HIV. Survival of the fittest.

What doesn’t kill you, eh?

Me, Obama and the HIV travel ban

2009-11-06T17:23:00.000-08:00

I have got to confess – it’s a huge relief knowing that the United States, with President Obama’s push, is going to lift its travel ban on HIV positive people from entering their country. Definitely a major reason I was finally willing to start this blog. What I found particularly insightful was his acknowledgement of the negative impact the travel ban had on the spread of HIV/AIDS.

Colour me paranoid, but I had felt that publicizing on the net that I was going to be travelling to the US for an ironman triathlon could potentially have had me placed on some sort of HIV blacklist by an official or an AIDSphobic individual and stopped me at the border. Training 20 hours a week for 10 months for ironman is a huge time, physical and emotional commitment. Add in equipment expenses, entry fee, travel and accommodation costs and it could all come to naught if I was blacklisted.

Overreacting you say? Consider this: In early 2008, Canadian Judge Jon-Jo Douglas, upon learning that a witness in the courtroom was HIV positive, forced the witness to wear a face mask, moved the proceedings to a larger courtroom in an effort to distance himself form the witness, and as court transcripts attest, Douglas proclaimed, “The HIV virus will live in a dried state for year after year after year and only needs moisture to reactivate itself”. His AIDSphobia infected (couldn’t resist) his co-workers; “court staff returned after a recess wearing rubber gloves and placed documents touched by the witness in plastic bags”. Hmmm – me thinks this is unchecked power expressed by an ignorant intelligentsia wannabe. So there.

All together now – and a one, and a two:

The weather outside is frightful.

Riding the trainer indoors delightful.

Since there’s no place to go.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!

OK, I’m a liar. Riding the indoor trainer isn’t delightful. With less sunlight and dropping temperatures its time has come again. I have friends that will be doing their weekly long ride of 4, 5 or more hours on their indoor trainers – in a single workout!!! - this winter to get ready for IM Brazil in May. Unfathomable. The most I’ve ever managed is 2.5 hours – once - and even then I was suicidal. I find it torturous beyond the 2 hour mark and this may be my greatest challenge to getting proper base training. So I better take my own advice that I so easily dispense to others in my deepest Drill Sargeant voice: “Suck it up, Buttercup”.

So how much training should I be doing? According to ironman.com, participants at IM Hawaii - the World Champs for which you have to qualify, usually by placing top 5 in your age group at an earlier ironman - have average weekly training volume for the 7 months preceding the race of:

11.3 kms (7 miles) of swimming

373.3 kms (232 mis) of cycling

77.2 kms (24 mis) of running

Mind you these are the cream of the crop and Type AAA personalities. Nevertheless, that is what it takes to get to the very top of age group ironman races. And a whole whack of being genetically gifted. That cannot be overstated – it is the single most contributing factor to athletic success. Alas I’m not athletically gifted. Rather, a delicate flower from sturdy peasant stock.

Let’s see – my last week of training has consisted of 2 swims (perhaps 4 kms total), 3 bikes (maybe 75 kms) and 4 runs (about 54 kms).

Giddy up, Buttercup.

Here we go!

2009-10-30T15:33:00.000-07:00

Hey friends and strangers!

Why have I decided to write a blog?

Mostly to share my triathlon training and racing journey as I prepare for Ironman (IM) Louisville 2010, but I also figure by being public about living with HIV I can help educate people and reduce stigma and discrimination. In short, effect positive change. Life’s too short not to be following passions. The grim reaper lurks closer every day. Maybe that’s whom I’m really racing.

I am a former pack a day tobacco smoker, heavy drinker (National Team) and partier (you name it, and I’ve probably smoked, snorted or swallowed it), and have weighed as much as 240 lbs whilst subsisting on chips, cookies, and cakes. Ah, good times.

So, as I move into the 45-49 age group next year – my theme is ‘Alive at 45’ - I’m looking to get fit and get to the finish.

As always, goal number 1 is to have fun in the process of getting fit, and have fun at races themselves. I ALWAYS get the volunteers to draw a happy face on my calf at races – a reminder of my priorities.

Goal number 2 is to hit the finish line at every race, but especially at IM. My first two attempts at IM were a complete disaster and near disaster respectively. But that was five years ago, my immune system has recovered a lot since then, and I’m a lot fitter. But I’m also older and you never know if injury or illness will prevent even starting. Fingers crossed.

Goal number 3 is time based – and I’m going to go out on a thin limb here and make an early goal time of 12 hours. Seems kind of daunting now that I’ve written it. Maybe because I’m delusional.

Goal number 4 is to get on the podium in local races as many times as possible. This year I raced 16 triathlons (that’s not a typo – I raced almost every weekend in our race season) and had 7 wins and 3 thirds. Managed to snag a gold medal at the World Out Games in Copenhagen and – this was the real shocker – become Provincial Long Course champ by winning my group at the Bracebridge half-IM. Who’da ever thunk?

Number 5 is to win the season points in my group in the local HSBC series. We’ll see how it plays out starting 7 or so months from now.

This morning I weighed 163 lbs, but I’m at the end of the ‘get fat and slow’ phase of my training year, so expect to get skinny – for me - for race season.

If you have any questions – training, racing, HIV, personal change - or non-judgmental comments, send ‘em along. I may reply. But I gotta be honest – I’m busy with school, work, training, speaking, and some semblance of a social life – so ya gotta fight for my attention.

And so there you have it. Let the drama unfold as fate’s fickle finger strums the strings of said theory.

Happy training!

Scott