Bill Rodgers- icon, regular guy

  He doesn’t look like your usual 66 year old American male. For one thing, he is thin; some would say skinny. In fact, when he was young, he was called “scrawny”. His fair skin shows the wrinkles and freckles acquired in a lifetime spent outdoors. His features are pleasant, friendly, and framed around a generous nose and a quick smile. He has a shock of unruly hair, still sandy brown, that hasn’t changed much since he won his first Boston Marathon in 1975 as an unknown, wearing a ratty T-shirt on which he had penciled in “Boston GBTC (Greater Boston Track Club)”, setting an American record for the marathon in the process.  

 

Bill Rodgers is 66 and looks like he is capable of going out and winning another Boston. Today, though, he is sitting in a chair, behind a folding table in a room at the Mount Dora, FL community center. His book, Marathon Man, has just been published. Tomorrow is the 2013 Mount Dora half marathon and 5K on Sunday, December 15. He is in town to run the latter and sign copies of his book. When I heard that he would be there, I could not pass up the chance to see and meet an icon of the sport and one of my athletic heroes going back to when I first heard of the crazy thing called a marathon.

 

       I expected many others to do the same and arrived at the community center prepared to confront crowds, a long line, and an equally long wait. After all, this was Bill Rodgers. THE Bill Rodgers. Boston Billy. Winner of 4 Boston and 4 New York marathons in the five year span from 1975 to 1980. Inducted into the National Distance Running Hall of Fame in Utica, NY.  I hoped to spend a brief moment with him, shake his hand, and get his signature on the flyleaf of his book.  Instead, I found myself in a line, if you want to call it that, of about 10 people, two in front of me and the rest behind. Bill took a lot of time with the first two people. I could see that he wrote a lot on the inside of the books.  He spoke at length with them. Then, I was standing in front of the little guy in the green shirt and jeans with the wild hair, shorter than me, but a giant in the field of running.  Oddly, I didn't feel at all nervous. He wasn't a 6' 4" NFL linebacker or a 7' NBA star, just a little guy who looked like, well, any runner out there on any given day. We shook hands and I said, "Surely you remember me". He looked hard, as though he surely should. "You blew by me at the end of the Cape Cod Marathon in 1995." He smiled as though he did, indeed, remember.

 

I remembered it well. I had never seen an elite runner up close. I was hobbling along with a torn, bleeding toenail, ripped off on one of the many hills on this "flat" course, dejected, in pain, and knowing I had failed in my bid to qualify for the 100th running of the Boston Marathon the following year. Suddenly here came Bill, anchoring the Ocean Spray Relay Team. He was long past his prime but still loping along with this effortless, huge stride that made him look nothing less than a human gazelle, flying over the ground, barely touching earth. Even sprinting I could not have kept up. It was a thrill I have never forgotten.

 

  For the next five or more minutes, we chatted about running, my recent Ironman triathlon, keeping fit over a lifetime, cross training, staying balanced, the importance of family, and more. It was like chatting with an old friend. I became self-conscious about the time he was taking with me but at no time did he act as though he needed to cut things short to get on to the next in line. In fact, I had to beg off with a comment about not wanting to monopolize his time. He signed my book. “Rick”, it said, “Congratulations on your Ironman triathlon! I’ll never do one of those (this from someone who used to put in 170 mile training weeks routinely) but it’s part of your “running story”. Let’s run forever! Bill Rodgers”. He gave me a card with his personal email address.

 

    In a world where our sports heroes seem better known for their doping, cheating, lying, and oversized egos it is incredibly refreshing to meet one who seems the polar opposite. I think he was perfectly happy to just hang out and chat. I felt like Bill would have been thrilled to accept an invitation to go for a run if I had extended one. He made me feel like he was as delighted, if not more so, to meet me as I was to meet him. It made me proud to be a runner.

 

   So, with an icon this personable and approachable, why wasn’t his table mobbed with an adoring crowd? I think it comes down to the nature of running itself. While running is an extremely popular sport, it does not lend itself to the kind of media coverage that other sports do. With the exception of the quadrennial Olympics and the Boston Marathon, main stream media coverage of running is almost non-existent. Other than the occasional Rosie Ruiz hitching a ride to the end of a marathon, scandals in running are few and far between. Running, while certainly sociable, is not a team sport where rooting for your college or pro team is practiced. Professional runners don’t make the big bucks, like other athletes; they are much more likely to be your neighbor than the NFL quarterback or NBA center, making hero worship problematic. Running is everyman’s sport, requiring no organization, special equipment, or venue. You can’t play football with your pro team on Sunday, drive the lane with your NBA team at the local arena, or drive a ball at Augusta during the Master’s, but you can run Boston with the likes of Bill Rodgers as thousands have. To us runners, Bill is just another runner, who happens to get to the finish line a little faster.

Drowning a shark or, you can't rest on your laurels

Every kid growing up goes through phases as regards what they would like to do with their lives. You know, things like wanting to be a cowboy, superhero, fireman, etc. In my case, my evolution included a list of “ologies”- paleontology, ornithology, herpetology, etc. The first one that was really serious was marine biology, specifically, the study of sharks. This eventually gave way to medicine but my interest in sharks has never waned.

 

    Sharks are fascinating creatures. Some fascination is natural about any creature that can kill and eat us. In the case of sharks, this has been fueled by the lurid news stories of shark attacks and sensational fictional accounts of which, without a doubt, the top one is Jaws by Peter Benchley. Over time, the hysteria and overreaction regarding the danger posed by sharks has been mitigated by information and more scientific shows such as seen on the popular, annual feature of the Discovery Channel, Shark Week (although, admittedly some of the shows do border on the sensational but, then again, ratings trump all).

 

       A little known fact about sharks among those who have only a passing interest, or no interest at all, is that nearly every species of shark must swim continuously or they will suffocate. You could say they would drown. You see, sharks do not have the ability to move water across their gills as fish do. To keep water flowing, they must keep moving forward. As if that weren’t enough, they don’t have swim bladders either, an organ seen in fish which allows them to control their buoyancy. So, if a shark stops swimming, they not only die, they sink to the bottom as well. So, if a shark wants to grow, reproduce, and live a long life, they must constantly move forward.

 

  It has been over 5 weeks since I completed the Ironman triathlon at which time I was undoubtedly the fittest I have been in my adult life. I have been, to put it bluntly, a couch potato ever since, with one swim and a Thanksgiving day 5K run to my credit. Yesterday, I slipped on the running shoes and my Garmin and went out for a 3.5 mile run around the lake. I felt like I was starting over. My body revealed a disturbing amnesia for the Ironman effort and acted like this was something new and very demanding. My Garmin registered a training effect of 4.6. A 4 is “highly improving”. A 5 is “overreaching”. Before the Ironman, it would have taken a sustained, serious effort to register a 4.6, meaning that my body, in a few short weeks has “de-conditioned” almost totally. This is disheartening. It is also a fact of life that we ignore at our peril.

 

It is a truism that we cannot rest on our laurels. All accomplishments recede in time, replaced by the query, “what have you done lately?” Physiologically, our bodies ask this question of us when we cease to properly care for them. It doesn’t matter that you brushed your teeth a week ago. If you don’t do this regularly, you will likely find yourself dealing with dentures someday. Quit exercising and in a few weeks it won’t matter if you won at Kona (the world Ironman championship, for readers that don’t keep up with such things), you will become a couch potato.

 

So, in a figurative and more gradual way, we have this in common with sharks (beyond the voracity of certain human species like corporate raiders, day traders, attorneys, politicians, etc. who, in a frenzy, may attack others of their own kind): if we do not keep moving forward, we will sink to the bottom and die. It is an object lesson we either learn from nature, or pay the price. And, it is a steep price. I see it paid out in my practice every single day.

From Ironman to couch potato....now what?

  Time stops for no man. A dream becomes a goal, then a reality, and, finally, a pleasant memory. You can’t live in the past, though. Well, I suppose you can but this would obviously put a bit crimp in your ability to accomplish much in the future.

 

        It has been 4 weeks since November 2. In that time frame, before November 2 I have would put in 32 training sessions over 24 days, totaling nearly 15 hours. Since November 2 I swam once and did a 3 mile run (which left my calves more sore than the Ironman did). From Ironman to couch potato in a month, a devolution if there ever was one.

 

   I must say, however, that having an extended period of down time after such an intense year has been amazing. I had almost forgotten how wonderful it is to have leisure time. I am a night owl and love to stay up late at night but on most days I have to get up early in the morning. This is not a good combination for someone who feels sleep deprived much of the time. When I was younger, I used to hate to sleep, feeling that it was a big waste of precious time in which I could be doing something, anything. Now, I live for Sunday afternoon power naps and love the feeling of waking up on Saturday morning spontaneously, without the insistent chirp of the alarm breaking into my REM sleep. The latter is something I have not experienced the entire twelve months of Ironman training, as Saturday was always the day for my long bike rides. Up at 6 and out the house by 7-7:30 to spend the next 6-7 hours “at the office” so-to-speak pedaling away across the Lake County landscape.

 

To get up in the morning without an alarm, roll out of bed, fix breakfast, grab the morning paper, then sit at the breakfast nook enjoying both without a pressing deadline, chore, or exhaustive training session looming, ah, that is heaven.

 

There is a danger to having too much leisure time, however. After four weeks of this I am already feeling restless and unfocused. People with ADHD do not do well without structure. I know that I function best when I have a schedule, even when that schedule is ridiculously full. I seem to be able to move through a busy day more efficiently and purposefully than one which is full of free time. Most of my life, my schedule is made for me by others. In school, it was classes, assignments, etc. established by my teachers. In residency, both in general surgery and plastic surgery, it was established by the program director and the requirements of the respective certifying boards. In my medical practice, the schedule is set by my staff, patient appointments, and surgery. In the Ironman, it was set up for me by Karl and all I had to do was follow it.

 

Now, I have to establish a new schedule to fill the void left by the absence of the training requirements for an Ironman. Of course, I don’t want to lose all the physical fitness I gained, because it felt great. At the same time I know that I cannot maintain that peak level of physical fitness, nor do I want to, required for an Ironman. While some time will have to be set aside for regular swimming, running, and biking throughout the week this will still leave a lot of free time. My hope has been, as indicated in past blogs, that I can use this time to finish the re-writing of my book manuscript. This has been on the back burner since around April, when I received the 17 pages of suggestions from Emily, the developmental editor in California that I engaged to help me produce something potentially publishable. My disappointment that the manuscript was not perfect as submitted was mitigated by the information passed on to me from Emily, and a very successful writer, that all books go through multiple re-writes. It is just that the task of writing what turned out to be my first draft was monumental and the thought of doing it again is almost overwhelming.

 

Now, I have to establish a regular schedule of writing. All serious writers set aside time for their writing. William Nolan, the surgeon who wrote The Making of a Surgeon and is one of my inspirations for a writing career, used to put in at least one hour of writing each morning, before heading out to the hospital or his office. I need that kind of discipline but so far have only been able to find it in my physical activities. This is not going to be easy. It may be the literary equivalent of my first (did I really say that?) Ironman.

Aftermath- lessons learned

It has been over a week since I officially became an Ironman. Having completed a physical challenge that, up to the morning of November 2, I was not sure I was up to, I am now trying to process the reality of it. Having devoted a full year of my life to this end, it just seems wrong not to try to draw some life lessons from this. I have heard it said that, if you can do an Ironman, you can do anything. That is obviously not literally true. For instance, I certainly can’t fly. However, I do understand the intent of this statement and I agree completely that most of us can do much more than we might think we can. Much more.

 

I remember many moments in the past year when doubts assailed me and I did not think this would ever happen. There were days that the last thing I wanted to do was roll out of bed in the pre-dawn hours to head out to the Y for a long swim, or wake up early on a Saturday morning, when I would normally sleep in, and head out for a 6 or 7 hour bike ride over ground I had covered countless times before. Knowing how I felt at the end of a long session in the pool, on the bike, or running, in and of themselves, and imagining combining all three in one day, the challenge seemed ridiculously overwhelming. I often found myself thinking that the idea of traveling 140.6 miles on one’s own power in 17 hours was simply crazy. With the hours I work, and the stress of the job, I know that I could not have done this when my kids were young and at home. It was hard enough with the “empty nest” and a totally supportive wife. My admiration goes out to all those younger men and women who manage to train for an Ironman while juggling jobs, family, and other obligations, especially those who do this multiple times. I would not care to repeat the past year. 

 

I was surprised that I wasn’t more emotional at the end. As I approached the finish line of my first marathon, the 1995 Walt Disney World Marathon, I had a huge lump on my throat and tears in my eyes at the realization that I was actually about to finish a marathon, something I had dreamed of for decades. Not so here. My primary feeling was fatigue, followed by relief that it was over at last.  Sally said that my brain didn’t seem to be tracking completely as I was asking the same questions over and over and simply not understanding some of the things she was saying. I was intently focused on retrieving my bike and bags until she finally stopped me and made me focus on her as she informed me for the umpteenth time that she had already done all that and they were in our hotel room.

 

I felt surprisingly good; not sore and with no pain anywhere. I was able to walk around normally in contrast to many people that I saw who were walking stiff-legged and in obvious pain. It made me really appreciate my training and how well it prepared me for this. I was, however, deeply fatigued and definitely in need of some nourishment, although I did not feel really hungry. Getting back to the room, I soaked in a tub of cold water for a half hour or so and downed a single personal pizza that Sally picked up, and a Coke. After a long effort, the combination of sugar and caffeine that a Coke provides just can’t be beat. Later, I had a bag of chips and another Coke.

 

Around 10 PM I felt good enough to get up and go back out to the finish line to see the late arrivals come in. That’s the best time to catch the spirit of the Ironman competition, when those determined individuals who have been out there for 15+ hours start arriving. The crowd goes wild and it is a big party. Some make to the line and collapse, others cry, some leap in the air, a couple of guys danced their way in, and on and on. As the clock ticked to midnight, the frenzy only increased until there was 1 minute left. With 20 seconds on the clock, two final people crossed, a young, overweight woman (not all participants are lithe, muscular athletic types) and a middle-aged man. The crowd went nuts cheering them in. Then it was over. Anyone crossing after Midnight gets cheered in and receives a finisher medal but officially goes in the records as DNF (Did Not Finish). The next “finisher” came in one minute past the deadline.

 

I slept surprisingly well and woke up in the morning famished. Again, no soreness or even much stiffness. I was thrilled. It was a bit nippy out so we skipped the al fresco breakfast in an open area of the expo and went to Another Broken Egg where I had two breakfasts- black bean sliders and a huge veggie omelet, with a dish of biscuit beignets, 2 glasses of orange juice, and decaf coffee. I was hungry again three hours later. That afternoon, I drove home to return to my normal routine.

 

My first lesson was to commit. Dreams remain dreams until a plan is made and deadlines set in place. Then they become goals. I had two goals, one lofty and one purely financial. The first was to achieve the goal of finishing an Ironman. The latter was to not waste my non-refundable registration fee of $650. I committed to do whatever I had to in order to fulfill those two goals.

 

The second lesson was to get expert help. I had always trained for marathons and triathlons on my own and, while I finished every event I entered, the results included disappointing finishing times and, in the case of marathons, a growing list of running related injuries. Triathlons, because of the cross training and shorter distances, did not cause me similar problems. Bouts of iliotibial band syndrome, sciatica, knee swelling and pain, and a nagging obturator/piriformis syndrome after my marathons made me begin to doubt the wisdom of continuing to do long distance running in general and an Ironman in particular, especially given that the marathon portion comes after the long swim and biking portions.

 

I received, as a gift, an Ironman training book but really wanted some additional help. I debated finding someone who had done an Ironman to advise me and considered a professional training group, such as Carmichael Systems, founded by Chris Carmichael, who trained Lance Armstrong for all of his Tour de France wins. I ruled that out, in part because of cost but, more to the point, because I was convinced that Carmichael had to have known of Lance’s doping and did not want to be trained by someone tainted thusly. In a serendipitous, I might even say, divine, appointment, my office patient coordinator, Amy, invited a representative of the National Training Center in Clermont, FL to join us for a seminar that we presented in Clermont. They sent Karl Reicken, a young, wiry, athletic type with a master’s in exercise physiology. We got to talking and before I knew it I was signed up for weekly coaching and an online training plan with Karl for the coming year. On the advice of friends, I contacted Misty Becerra, a swim coach also at the NTC. A swim analysis with her set me on a path to being faster and more efficient in the water. For the remainder of the year, every Tuesday, after work, I would hop in the car and drive 35 minutes to Clermont to do a 45-60 minute swim with a “masters”, i.e. old farts like me, group followed by an hour with Karl in the gym. His workouts almost invariably left me whooping and gasping and I would stagger limply back to my car and drive home. Karl worked first on my flexibility, which was non-existent; then on mobility of my hips, legs, and torso; and, finally, on strength and explosiveness. He adjusted my stride to a quicker cadence with lighter steps. Every day, except for Sunday, I had a training session scheduled. The schedule never varied, except that the duration of the long sessions increased as the months passed. My weeks went as follows. Monday I ran in the morning and did a spin on the bike trainer in the evening. Tuesday was at the NTC. Wednesday was a run with speed intervals, short duration but very hard effort. Thursday was a long swim. Friday was a long run and Saturday was a long bike ride. My swim topped out at 4950 yards, my run at 19.6 miles, and the longest bike ride was 107 miles, a 7 hour odyssey to Salt Springs and back on Labor Day. It is fair to say that Karl pushed me harder than I would have pushed myself.

 

Getting this help was probably my single best move of all. Misty improved my swim times and Karl brought me through a year of intense training without a single injury or physical problem, beyond some soreness and stiffness in my neck and shoulder from the long bike rides in the aero position, and this was minor. I arrived in Panama City fitter, stronger, more flexible, and more mobile than I have ever been in my adult life and this was clearly demonstrated by my results.

 

The third lesson was that you can’t do it alone. Even a largely solitary endeavor like an Ironman requires social support. The encouragement from Misty and Karl and their repeated assertions that I would be ready countered the many moments of doubt that I had along the way. The encouragement and support of friends and family who followed me through the process were invaluable and helped to keep me motivated, largely so that I wouldn’t disappoint them. I wanted my Ironman to inspire and motivate others and I knew that to do this best, I needed to finish and, if possible, finish well. Finally, there was Sally, who for 32 years has put up with my quirks and idiosyncrasies, supported me in all that I do, and loved me through it all. She was truly an “Ironman widow” the past year yet her support for my “project” never waivered.

 

The fourth lesson is focus. Life is so full of distractions that if you don’t focus, you will get lost in all the “noise” of daily life. As someone with ADHD, for whom distractions are a daily fact of life and an obstacle to productivity, I know this, but it was really driven home this year. My focus on my Ironman training was intense, so much so that many things were put on the back burner and/or left undone totally. I did no yard work this year. House hold chores were put off. I let my desk and personal office space at work clutter up. I put off any work on my book. I limited my social activities. Looking back, however, nothing crucial was left undone. I kept up with my patient and administrative responsibilities at the office, bills got paid, the house didn’t fall down around me. My wife didn’t leave me, thank God. My kids survived. Important things, even self-imposed important things, in life deserve our focused attention. We can’t do it all, however, so prioritizing and taking things one at a time is critical to being productive. True multi-tasking is a myth. Yes, we can do multiple tasks, but we do them sequentially, not all at once.

 

The fifth and final lesson (I could draw lots more but, for now, these will do) is that anything worth doing, whether it is work, a hobby, or a special project, is worth doing to the best of our ability. A half-hearted effort will produce a half-*ssed result. Looking back, I really don’t see how I could have prepared any harder or with more dedication. As a result, I don’t have any sense that I need to do this again to try to improve the outcome. I am totally content with the result of my Ironman. I can't say that about everything I have done in my life. 

Chasing the Fat Man

Well, it is early morning, November 3. Post-Ironman day #1. It’s in the bank. The fat lady has sung. I’ll come back to that in a moment. My mind is still processing the experience but I thought it might interest a few people who will probably never be crazy enough to do an Ironman, to learn a little about the day. So for those, and anyone else who cares, here is a brief synopsis of the day.

 

     The Swim: Alarm went off at 4 AM. Time for a bagel with peanut butter and honey, OJ, and a glass of milk with Ovaltine and Nescafe. Then off to drop off final bags of “stuff” I might need at halfway points on the bike ride and run. Finally, suit up and head to beach. Thursday the winds and surf were more suited to a professional surfing competition than a swim. Saturday AM the winds had died to nothing and the Gulf was all gentle rollers with 2-3 waves breaking. Perfect. Milling around the beach waiting for the cannon to start, all the energy, anticipation, excitement, and nervousness are reaching a critical mass. Sally said the mass start looked like a scene of sea turtles hatchlings heading out to sea ‘en mass’, all bobbing heads and flying elbows, that looked like flippers. I seeded myself with the group anticipating a 1:30-1:45 hr swim. I figured that was realistic. Air temp was in high 50’s making the 75 degree water feel great. Once past the breakers, the swim was very comfortable, if you could ignore the kicks, punches, people pulling on you, etc. To get some idea, imagine an aquatic version of a mosh pit in a heavy metal concert. I was pummeled, kicked, pulled, pushed, and that was before heading into the water! Just kidding. In the water, though, this was true and one heel caught me square in the right eye. Fortunately, the googles, which are squishy, catch the force and other than having it plastered against my face, I was none the worse. Only the next day did I discover that it knocked the prescription lens free inside the google, which was secured with silicone glue. At least I didn’t lose the lens. After the first two turns, the crowd spaced out but I always knew when the turn buoy was approaching because everyone would bunch up to cut as close as possible to the buoy. The swim was my favorite part and I thought of my Dad, who was a college swimmer and always swam so smoothly. I tried to emulate him as well as I could. Final time on the swim: 1:25:53, my fastest time ever.

 

Transition 1 (swim to bike)- a large room full of naked men changing out of wet clothes into biking gear as fast as they can. Enough said. 18:59 minutes here.

 

 Bike: As to my fat lady reference, I’m going to call this section “Chasing the Fat Man” because that’s what I did. There was one rider who was, shall we say, a bit overweight. From the back, in his black spandex bike shorts, he looked like a bowling ball with legs. We leap frogged each other for hours. I kept thinking that, surely, I could outride this guy but every time I passed him and pulled ahead, sure enough, a little while later, he would do the same. To tell the truth, I never noticed who had the lead by the time we came to the end of the ride. I never saw him after that. I guess it does prove that you can be “fit and fat”. The course was great except for one “out and back” at midpoint that took over some of the most rutted roads I have ever ridden. Lance Armstrong’s assertion that “it’s not about the bike” takes on new meaning knowing that he doped for year, but it is still true today. My mid-level Trek Madone road bike with aero bars was definitely on the low end of the scale compared to the state-of-the-art tri bikes on display, which made up at least 2/3 of the bikes used. Some of those puppies were easily in the $7000-10,000 range. Well, I passed a lot more tri bikes than passed me (ha!), including some of those killer machines with carbon disc aero wheels. I felt like my bike was just slicing through the air and, at moments, it seemed like I was pedaling to just stay with it. I know we tend to treat our favorite vehicles, cars, boats, etc. more like a pet than an inanimate object, with names and such, but my bike was a thoroughbred and, once out of the gate it took the bit and just ran and ran. It was smooth and steady. It got me out and back in good form and I tried to save a little in the tank for the run. Good boy, little Trek Madone. When I get home, I’ll feed you a little chain lube and give you a good rub down.

Time: 6:22:18 for an average speed of 17.58 mph- my fastest ride ever. To think I was hoping to average around 16 mph…..I’m still not sure how I did that.

 

Transition 2 (bike to run): Ditto transition 1. Time here was 15:15.

 

   The Run- I was blown away that it was only around 3 o’clock when I dismounted my bike and I had over 8 hours to finish the marathon. My hope was to have enough time for the marathon, in case I bonked, that I would be able to finish in time even if I had to walk much of the way. My dream goal was to run the distance with planned walking through the water stops to get food and water. Starting out on a run after a 112 mile bike ride, one’s legs are totally discombobulated; the muscles don’t know what to do with themselves. You have been turning the pedals for so long in a circular motion, using particular muscle groups that to switch over takes time. For the first 2-3 miles, the recurring thought I had was, “I’m not going to make it.” My legs weren’t working right, I was very uncomfortable, and I could not imagine dragging this out for the 6-7 hours I figured the run would take. Then, a wonderful thing happened, the muscles sorted themselves out and all of sudden I felt surprisingly comfortable. The prospect of finishing now looked very doable. I focused on a few key thoughts. Over the last 13 miles, except for these, my mind was a near total blank. They were, in this order: 1. Light, quick steps- keeping a good fast cadence. Running lightly was something that Karl tried to drill into me for the run in our sessions together. This worked like a charm 2. Stay focused and centered- I tried to drown out distractions although, of course, I had to high five a few of the enthusiastic crowd and I had a couple of conversations with other runners. 3. Conserve energy- in the second half of the marathon, I was passing people who were relegated to walking almost continuously. I wanted to ration my energy so that it would last for the distance. I am proud that I was able to do that. When I realized that I actually had a chance to break 14 hours, something I never imagined in my most optimistic moments, you could have knocked me over with the proverbial feather. With each closing mile, you can feel the anticipation, emotion, and energy begin to ramp up. In the last mile, you can hear the crowd, and the announcer…….”(name), YOU……ARE……AN IRONMAN!!!!!”
You know your turn will come soon. It is the payoff for a year or more of sweat, sacrifice, determination, and, often, pain. It may not seem like much, but very few people will ever get a chance to hear those words, and it is enough. They were music to my ears. Final time for the run: 5:14:08.

 

Final finishing time: 13:36:33 hours. Sing, fat lady, sing.

364 days down, 1 to go

Well the day has almost arrived, 364 days down, 1 to go. I arrived on Thursday noon to enter a circus. The atmosphere is electric and, with apologies to the ladies who are racing and those who might read this blog, not a little charged with testosterone.  Two thirds of participants are male and a lot of the younger ones are walking around with all sorts of Ironman gear on; my cynical side says so that others can see who they are. Of course, I won’t begrudge someone being proud of participating in, or finishing, an Ironman. I’d be proud too. It just seems that parading it around is unbecoming.

 

Everywhere you look are athletes and bicycles, usually together. People are out running, some riding their bikes, as if training for a year or more wasn’t enough that they have to get in one more session before the big day. Me, I opted for rest and recovery and I think that was the right decision because I feel the best I have felt in a long time. Very good and with lots of pent up energy. Most of the sore spots have settled down nicely on a regimen of Icy Hot patches and Ibuprofen.

 As you might imagine, there aren’t a lot of fat people walking around. On the other hand, I have seen a lot of participants- you know who they are by the blue wristbands that all of us have to wear to get into areas restricted to athletes only- that you would not look at and say, “oh, that’s definitely an Ironman.” Some are downright “pudgy”. Just goes to show you can’t judge a book……

 

The bikes are amazing. About 2/3 to ¾  are “tri” bikes, flat handle bars with gear shifters on the ends of the aero bars, ultra-aerodynamic, and with carbon aero wheels. Some of these cost upwards of $10,000. Supposedly, they make you faster. I have heard that they are twitchy to handle, especially in crosswinds, and that the aero shaping really kicks in above 20 mph. Since my planned speed is going to be 15+ mph (I would love to average 16 mph or more), I didn’t think that all the aero stuff would be that helpful. Besides, I don’t plan to do a lot of triathlons and a road bike makes more sense for me. The other ¼- 1/3 are bikes like mine: road bikes with aero bars added as an option. This has worked well in training and I expect it will suit me just fine tomorrow.

 

      Of course, Mother Nature had to have her little fun. I arrived to blowing winds from the south, 10-20 mph with gusts quite a bit higher, kicking up a perfect surf for surfers, but more than a little scary for swimmers having to swim 2.4, twice through a raging surfline. It was even worse today and I could envision the swim being cut short, or eliminated, which would have really been a bummer. This afternoon, it rained cats and dogs, and maybe a few barnyard animals, but after that was over the wind shifted direction and died down, and tomorrow’s forecast calls for a sunny day with winds of around 5 mph. Perfect. A little Ironman miracle. After a year of training, no one wants to lose the opportunity to actually do the whole Ironman. Anything else would leave a distasteful (*) after the “finisher” designation. It just wouldn’t be the same.

 

There are 64 entrants in the 60-64 year old age group- mine. I wonder how many will kick my butt. More power to them. At this point competitiveness largely gives way to simply finishing for most of my peers. The last finisher gets the same medal as the first, and may have a better story.

 

Today was perfect: breakfast in my room of my usual cereal- I’m not changing up a thing that has worked for me all year. Lunch at Subway- a foot long veggie sub with water for anyone who cares. Dinner was perfect: Carrrabbas. A big plate of fried zucchini, great salad of arula, a big bowl of penne pasta in garlic and oil with mushrooms, artichokes, and sun dried tomatoes, and, desert of course- tiramisu. I feel primed and ready. 

 

In the morning all I have to do is have my bagel with peanut butter and honey, a glass of OJ and a glass of Ovaltine with Nescafe; drop off my “special needs” bags (these are given out  midway through the bike and run portions and include whatever you think you might need at the point); dress for the swim; and head out to the beach, hopefully to a vista of relatively calm water.

 

I am as nervous as the proverbial cat in a room full of rocking chairs but, hopefully, once I get going, I can just focus on the process and enjoy this crazy ride. Toodle-loo until after midnight tomorrow.

On the launch pad, T-minus 5 days and counting

It is hard to believe that I am down to the final 6 days before the Ironman. Looking back, it has been a long 11 ½ months and I know I have never worked harder at anything over this length of time. Hopefully, the training is now fully in the bank and my fitness and preparation will carry the day. If I am honest, while I do have confidence in the process, I still struggle with the overwhelming nature of an Ironman triathlon. I have a hard time envisioning how I will feel getting off the bike after 112 miles, following on the heels of a 2.4 mile swim, and then contemplating starting a marathon run. This is insane. At least, I will be surrounded by a couple of thousand equally insane people.

 

My emotions are all over the place. Elation at having completed the hardest physical training I have ever done. Anxiety that it might not be enough. Excitement that the end of this journey is in sight. Apprehension that it might not end the way I would like or hope.

 

Everyone who participates in an Ironman triathlon wants to hear those iconic words as they cross the finish line, “(your name), you are an Ironman!” Perhaps even more than the medal, they serve as a final affirmation of the accomplishment, one which can never be taken away. I admit, it would be nice, no, it would be great, to hear those words following my name.

 

Two things happened this week that brought some perspective to the situation. On Thursday, I was going to do a complex breast reconstruction on a patient whose previous surgery elsewhere failed to produce an acceptable result. She is a diabetic and, at the last minute, her blood sugar, which is checked just before patients go to the operating room was 99. This is excellent but, at some time in the past, her husband had been told that she should never have surgery if her blood sugar was so low. This is actually incorrect but he took the admonition to heart and was very anxious, to the point of wanting to postpone surgery. I did not know that he had lost a son in surgery in the past. I spoke to him and reassured him that the blood sugar was fine and that she would do well. Surgeons often have to reassure patients and their families, even though we know better than most all the things that can go wrong in an operation. Later, when I went to report to him that all had gone very well, he told me that the only thing that relieved his anxiety and allowed him to see her off to surgery was that he knew I was a Christian doctor. I don’t know how he knew this; I am not outwardly expressive about my faith and I must confess that, while I routinely pray for patients, I do not often pray with them. Even so, it made realize how much faith and trust patients and their families place in us to care for them. It was a sobering realization that my identity as a triathlete pales compared to my responsibility as a surgeon and physician charged with the care of my patients, who literally place their lives in my hands.

 

The second thing occurred at a seminar my partner and I gave the next day. It was a small group and, at the back of the room, sitting by herself, was a young woman I did not recognize at first. When she raised her hand and was called on, she began to share her experience as a patient of mine of nearly a decade back. Her praise was effusive, and a little embarrassing, but it was what happened later that surprised me. At the end of the seminar, she came up to speak to me privately, sharing that she had had a very difficult life since leaving her native land of Brazil to come and find her fortune in the U.S. Here she had married, had a child, divorced, and been forced to work to support herself and her son. All along, she nursed the hope and desire to pursue a career in medicine, taking college courses whenever she could.

Over time, her desire for material wealth and success diminished even as her desire to follow her heart and become a physician increased. Along with this, her Christian faith solidified and she was now torn between accepting a great promotion, and possible career, with high pay in her current job, or pursuing medicine, which probably meant returning to Brazil and uprooting her 8 year old son. She came to me for advice on what to do. Again, when speaking with her and contemplating the momentous decision before her, the significance of this Ironman event shrank into a minor concern. I told her to follow her heart, and if this led to medicine, that was where she should go.

 

Whatever happens on Saturday, my life will be defined better by how I have related to the important people around me and not by whether I ever become an “Ironman”. The next update will probably be after November 2. It will be interesting to see what I have say then…………

The Sword of Damocles

   Although many people may recall hearing of the “Sword of Damocles”, not many remember the story behind it. According to legend, in the court of Dionysius II, King of Syracuse, Sicily in the 4^th Century, there was a courtier named Damocles. Courtiers were persons, male and female, who spent a lot of time in the King’s court. Some were nobles, some had business with the King, and some were just close friends of the King. Not sure where Damocles fit in here but apparently he commented to Dionysius how fortunate he was to enjoy all the perks of kingship. Dionysius invited Damocles to sit on his throne so that he could briefly enjoy that privilege but, unbeknownst to Damocles, Dionysius installed a huge sword over the throne, hanging by the single hair of a horse’s tail.

Eventually, Damocles could not fail to take notice of the sword, “hanging by a hair”, and could not vacate the throne fast enough. This story has been used as a morality tale about the price of privilege and power probably giving rise to the Shakespeare’s observation, in Henry IV, that “uneasy lies the head that wears a crown”. It is also used to describe the fickleness of life itself.

 

As a physician, I am reminded of the Sword of Damocles almost daily. A patient may have a nearly perfect life only to wake up one day and notice, for the first time, an unusual dark mole that has arisen, seemingly overnight.  The next thing they know, they are fighting for their life with an advanced melanoma. The number of ways in which our lives can be turned upside down, from one moment to the next, are literally endless. It could be an illness, accident, family tragedy, professional setback, financial reversal, etc. etc.

 

It has been said, probably by someone in the financial field that yesterday is a cancelled check, tomorrow is a promissory note, and only today is cash in hand. I agree, and I try to remember that when making future plans, even though it can be difficult not to count on tomorrow, and the next day, and so on, as though these are guaranteed to us. They aren't.

 

  I have been running in the neighborhoods around my house for the past 25 years. I have been approached by countless dogs with never a problem. I like dogs and do not believe I project fear when I am approached. There was one dark morning, before sun up, years ago. I was jogging when a large dark shadow came running toward me and began running alongside. It was disconcerting to see a very large, full grown Doberman Pinscher. The dog made no sound, just ran right along with me for perhaps a mile than peeled off.  Well, today I finally got bit. As I passed a house in my neighborhood, two dogs ran out, one black, one white. Neither was large and both looked like some version of a wire-haired terrier. The black one ran right into me and the smaller white one bit my ankle. The bite broke the skin but was, fortunately, superficial. The owner called them away before I had a chance to kick their heads off. I continued my run- I didn't want to get side tracked since I was timing it- but went back later to inform the owner of my bite and suggest he take care with the white one as it was obviously excitable and a bite risk. He was very apologetic and, when he saw the bite, seemed sincerely upset and even suggested he might put the dog down. I suggested he just keep it better secured.

 

The irony here is that my thought this morning was that I have done the training and now all I have to do is stay healthy and uninjured for the next two weeks. If the bite had been more serious, it could very possibly have derailed 11 ½ months of training and preparation. Just goes to show we should never count our chickens or assume that our plans are going to go to completion as we hope. We still make our plans; you can’t live life without planning for the future, but we must realize that some version of the Sword of Damocles hangs over our heads all the time and all we can do is be grateful that the hair it is hanging by holds up for another day.

     For today, I dodged a bullet and will just have to hope and pray that the next two weeks are uneventful as I finally get to enjoy the wonderful aspect of training known as the “taper”.

 

** I would be terribly remiss if I did not acknowledge the arrival yesterday morning of Elliette Briley Pace, the newest member of the family, who made her grand and celebrated entrance to the delight of all the Bosshardt’s and Pace’s. Welcome Elliette! May that hair hold strong for you and all your family for many years to come.

Feeling "bouncy"

“The wonderful thing about Tiggers is Tiggers are wonderful things”- Tigger

 

The one thing I remember about Tigger, other than the fact that he was a cartoon, stuffed-cloth, tiger-like character, was that he was “bouncy”.  I recalled that fact this week when I went out for an early morning run, after a 30 minute spin on the bike, in my house, on a trainer. As I headed down the road out of our development in the early morning twilight, I felt “bouncy”, which is to say that my legs felt springy and light, and my stride felt correspondingly light and quick. It was a neat feeling and one that I do not remember ever consciously being aware of in all the years that I have run.  It was another small confirmation that the training is paying off.

 

      It has not been all a grind. The bike rides last Saturday and today were on days that could only be described as “perfect” for being on a bike: clear skies that seem too blue to be real, fleecy white clouds, light breezes, and moderate temperatures with little humidity. After a summer of the most rain we have seen in years (none of which seems to have interfered with my riding days), not only are the lake levels rising, but the countryside is every hue of green you can imagine. The rolling hills of rural Lake County have some of the best bike riding roads anywhere, with little to no traffic and surprisingly panoramic vistas, given the generally flat character of the Florida landscape.    On one of my stops for a GU gel, some Salt Sticks, and a drink, I found myself looking out over a landscape of gently rolling hills that seemed far removed from my daily life. The sun was bright and just beginning to burn off the morning chill. The only sound was the gentle buzzing drone of insects and the occasional chirp of a bird. How often is it that we take a break from the sounds of our daily life? Television, radio, iPods, traffic, machinery, etc. all produce a cacophony of sound that has become so familiar that we only notice it when it is absent. The quiet and soothing natural sounds were like a balm to my soul and I could only marvel at how lovely the day was. Riding was not a chore, it was a rare privilege.

 

 This weekend was the annual Mount Dora Bicycle Festival, an event attended by cyclists from all over Florida, and out of state, so the roads were much busier than usual with small pelotons here in there interspersed with single riders and pairs. As a long time cyclist I love riding my bike and try to promote it as much as I can. Unfortunately, some cyclists seem to go out of their way to be as obnoxious as possible, giving the rest of us a bad reputation. On one stretch of highway 561, heading back home, I could see a group of a dozen or so cyclists bearing down on me.  I knew I would be overtaken, which was fine since I had my own pace set and, besides, I had already done 70+ miles and had no interest in “hammering” at this point in my ride. I watch them approach in my rearview mirror and when they were near, I moved slightly right and raised my left hand in a friendly greeting. There was no traffic coming so the lane was clear. They passed me without a single acknowledgment and two of their group came so close that I had to swerve and for a second I thought I was going to be run off the road onto the soft shoulder. I

 wished them all flat tires and/or broken chains. Jerks.   What is it about some people that even in their recreation they have to be aggressive and obnoxious? It is this kind of macho, must win, wannnabe professional, pseudo-racing B.S. that turns off a lot of novice riders before they get comfortable riding in pace lines on the road. I think we should all encourage each other in pursuing health and fitness, not rub people's faces in their inexperience and ineptitude. Every time I see an obviously struggling, overweight man or woman out their jogging, walking, or riding a bike I try to remember, "there but for the grace of God go I" and I either wave encouragingly or, at least, utter a silent prayer for their safety and success.

 

Whatever the outcome of this triathlon, I have already begun thinking ahead, not so much to the next challenge as to what I will do with my free time. My discretionary time these past 11 months has been almost non-existent. I think it is time to hit the book again. By “book”, I mean “the book”- my  manuscript, which needs re-writing, and which I swore I would    finish this year and submit to a publisher. The latter is unlikely in this short timeframe, but the former is, possibly, doable. I just have to re-write the book and have someone accept it. No big deal.

 

For now, I will enjoy feeling “bouncy” and hope that what I have done up to now will be enough. Florida Ironman, here I come………….