Something Spiritually Sexy

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

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.

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

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.