A well deserved beat-down and a love story

Our fun-filled, sun-soaked, beach-lovin’, five-week Australian vacation (which is less that half over!) has easily taken the sting out of the whooping I received less than two days after our arrival. I pretty much saw it coming and, regardless of lack o’ preparation, acted as if I was ready for a podium finish at the ITU World Championships on the Gold Coast of Oz.

Like years past, at 6:45am we paratriathletes (PTs) were the first wave to kick off the day’s races. Moments before the gun went off I sat on the water’s sandy edge next to my long-time rival and good friend Rivaldo Martins.

“Another race,” I said with an appreciative smile to acknowledge over many battles over the past 12 years. The man with one of the biggest grins on the planet replied, “Another race.”

Two seconds after the big speakers broadcasted “racers ready,” the horn blew and the gimps were off and swimming, some of us slower than others. I’ll spare you lots of race details—not so fun to write about getting schooled—and tell you that my swim was pathetic, my bike OK at best, and my run snail-paced. At the event I’ve yet to place worse than second, I finished fifth of six, and I had to pass that guy on the bike.

It’s almost amusing to tell you that I’ve been beaten by JP Theberge, among other BKs, the last four consecutive triathlons I’ve entered. First was NYC, then a month later, in mid-August, at back-to-back races in London before the recent thrashing.

Along with 40 other PTs, I raced in the UK as part of an international invitational super-sprint triathlon staged to promote our hopeful inclusion within the 2012 Paralympic Games. The race was held a few hours after the pros competed on the future Olympic Course. Perhaps the biggest thrill for us—for me anyway—was being granted use of the pro transition with its big blue carpet and individualized racks stating our name, country and race number. (We’re told this will be standard for upcoming world championship events. It’s incredibly fulfilling to know that the future of our sport will be given such respect.)

The course was all of 300 meters in the water, followed by a 10k bike before wrapping things up with a 3k run. This took me all of 37 minutes and even quicker was JP and a young Frenchman. The latter isn’t missing a leg but has a club foot. He races with us in the “slight leg impairment” category. (I know, kinda funny, but if you ask an above-knee amp, they’ll tell you our lot are challenged with veritable hangnails.) It was brought to the authorities’ attention that this categorization might not actually be fair, and it’s not because the athlete in question could swim, bike or run faster that JP or I, but because he didn’t have to change legs between disciplines, which is what ultimately earned him the top spot. Rumor has it the book will be amended.

The next day at the same venue was an age-group Olympic Distance race that JP and I opted for since we’d traveled across the Atlantic with our bikes and wetsuits and spare legs. Like in NY, he bested me by three minutes. Consolation: I finished 7th in my age-group (of around 60 in the 40-44s) to his 12th—he’s a few years younger.

Just a few weeks later I met JP, Rivaldo, a rookie from Brazil, a couple of fast Austrians and a bunch of others PTs of various “disabilities” and genders at Worlds. Those of you who don’t care much for excuses might want to skip a few paragraphs.

Reminiscent of the joy experienced when The Great War ended, Sharon finished her residency on Tuesday, August 18—the day after I returned from London, the same day I picked up a UHaul in which to load all of our belongings. I’d been focused on our return to Boulder, CO and little else for the previous five or six weeks. Along with the packing of dozens and dozens of boxes, my time and energy were absorbed by the longer-than-expected punch-list I’d agreed upon with our home’s new owners.

After two and a half days of truck-loading and habitat-clearing, we closed on the house  at 4:30pm on Thursday and immediately began our five-day adventurous move across the country. Sparing more details and redundancy here, I’ll say it was a great trip, thoroughly enjoyed by all, even 3-yr old Jack and 2-yr old Luke, thanks to portable DVD players in the minivan.

Upon arrival to Boulder on Tuesday afternoon, the pain Stumpy had experienced for the previous 24 hours intensified due to yet another cellulitis infection just below and to the left of my patella. Unloading was far from pleasant and the two days of house set-up were miserable at best, resulting in three crutch-reliant days of near immobility with pain, fevers, cold sweats and lethargy, all the while driving Sharon absolutely batty with my pissy disposition.

I’m happy to say I recovered very quickly once the infection drained. Two days later I was feeling nearly OK and simply had to get back to the YMCA rink to play a game of pick-up hockey with the boys I hadn’t seen in nearly four years. I had my new skating leg from A Step Ahead ready to go and relished every minute of the workout. Even scored a couple goals. I should mention the goalie was a bit soft…

The next day—thrilled beyond words to take advantage of all that is Boulder—I did a two-hour run up the stair-stepped Saddleback Ridge trail and down the more gradual Gregory Canyon descent.

Somehow, and I’m really not sure how, I woke up the next morning feeling like I’d been I’d been sent through a meat grinder. My legs were fine, my upper body was quite sore but it was my forearms that were tender to the point I couldn’t even write with a pen. It took all I had to even get the ibuprofen out of the bottle! This lasted for three days; the three days leading up to our departure for Australia. I suppose this could have come from playing hockey, but the severity truly mystified me.

The summation of all these little factors surely squashed my thin hopes to perform up to standards and the beat-down I received was even greater than expected.

The desire to get back to fighting form is not lost, however. I’ll certainly need to return to the well properly and effectively for next year’s quest of another Ironman notch in the race belt: it looks like I’ll be joining a few dozen fellow Boulderites for a poke at Ironman Canada in August, 2010.

On a final, completely unrelated note, Sharon and I entered yet another contest a couple weeks back. We’d met six years ago at The Rio, an infamous margarita bar/restaurant in Boulder. The management recently held an essay contest called “It All Started at The Rio,” inviting patrons to submit their stories on-line with a grand prize of a one-week trip for two to Guadalahara, Mexico!

I submitted our tale a few hours before the midnight, August 31 deadline.

We were notified shortly before boarding our flight overseas that we’d landed in the top-5 and that there would be an award party held at The Rio which we’d unfortunately have to miss. We’ve since learned of our fourth-place finish—no trip, but it looks like we’re the proud new owners of a José Quervo iPod with a speakers deck and matching JQ back yard chairs!

Here’s the submission if you’ve any time or interest remaining. While you’re either reading or moving on to better things, there’s a good chance Sharon, the boys and I will be back on the boogie boards attempting to catch some waves!

I strolled into a gift shop on Pearl street intent on a Christmas present for friends back in Boston. Found one. In the checkout line I also found myself in the glow of a beautiful and friendly patron. The wheels began to turn.

It was around 7:30 and I was to meet friends at the Rio at 10, same time the gift shop was closing. I went, cleaned up, put a nice shirt and boldly approached the young lady at 9:50 intent on bringing her along to hang with me and my friends. As Bon Scott belted nearly three decades past: “Ain’t it a shame / To be shot down in flames.”

So with my clean shirt and thirst for a marg, I picked myself up and headed to the Rio. Upon reaching the gang at the elevated seating section, far left, I immediately laid eyes upon a smiling young lady. My buddy chimed in, “There’s a cutie.” I couldn’t have agreed more, but at the moment was content with chumming it up with the crew. The only seat available at the table was directly in front of this lady we’ll call “Sharon.” We traded flirty smiles as I turned my back to her and took my seat

Before too long she’d left to freshen up and upon returning to her seat, she laid a long, flirty, marg-assisted gaze on me that scarred the very back of my retinas…in a good way.

At that moment I was chatting it with a guy who\’s story seemed to have no end. The moment he reached the closing, I abruptly excused myself, did a 180 and asked the aforementioned if she would allow me to join her and her friend in conversation. She moved right over and the banter was in full swing

It’s here I should mention that I was wearing shorts and have a prosthetic leg. She was in medical school and had just amputated her first leg that day! I had also just shaved my head bald, bald for the first time in my life. Shiny white dome. She thought I was a cancer patient and, she’ll say, was giving me “pity time.”

I took advantage of this window and continued to charm her to the best of my abilities, which for me boils down to acting as if I didn’t want to have sex with her that night…

Then I almost made the biggest mistake of my life: I said good night and we parted ways…without getting her phone number! Fortunately the three margs didn’t fog my judgement too much and I made it back for the digits scripted on a Rio napkin.

Six years later, that napkin resides in a glass frame, adjacent the pictures of our two beautiful boys, Jack and Luke.

Thanks for providing the venue and the liquid courage to start yet another Rio love story.

Boston Back to Boulder

Four years ago Sharon and I decided to move to Boston, my home state, to accept the invitation of a medical student lifetime: a Harvard anesthesiology residency. No one who knows my wife would be surprised to hear she was “the best resident they’ve ever had”—yes, one attending physician actually told her that. On August 18, after nearly four years (and two babies) of inspiringly long hours and stressful duty, she walked through the revolving doors of Brigham and Women’s Hospital for the last time as low member of the totem pole and is scheduled to begin career at Lutheran Hospital in Wheatridge, CO, just north of Denver, on October 15.

Also on that day, I picked up a 26-foot UHaul and with help from friends and family, began packing our household items for our move back Colorado, whence we came, whence we said we would one day return. Two days later, on August 20, 4:30pm, we sold our house at a break-even price (the house I personally doubled in size and completely rebuilt from roofing, to siding, to gutted kitchen and bathrooms and everything in between). We then began our 6-day journey back to Boulder at 4:35pm. First stop Niagara.

Sharon had never been there and contrary to many people’s geographic assumptions, it’s a mere 20 miles out of the way, just north of Buffalo, off I90.

We’d pulled into town late that first night, got to the Falls first thing, then made our way toward South Bend, Indiana, passing through Cleveland along the other side of the highway from the fateful spot where my left leg met it’s maker.  We picked South Bend for no other reason than it was a good spot as any to stop and I’d have a chance to see a good friend, Bruce Gordon, whom I’ve blown off on cross-country drives more times than I can count on one hand.

Got in a run first thing in the morning before heading off to south central Minnesota. We chose to stretch out the drive a bit by staying on I90 as opposed to the more direct I80 route for the sake of visiting the Black Hills. The extra effort proved well worthwhile since we truly enjoyed, and were surprised by, the beauty of the rolling Wisconsin country side and the magnificence of the Badlands and Black Hills of South Dakota.

We arrived in Rapid City, SD, on the 4th night, around 6pm. Perfect timing for a twilight visit to Mount Rushmore at which time they put on a little show with a patriotic video and description of the carving of the mountain with a back story on why they chose those four presidents. All the while some weather was coming in, lightning flashed about and wind blew. It was the perfect drama to top off our day.

The next morning I rode the bike up one of the most fabulous short climbs of all my miles. Up route 16A, over what’s called the “Pig Tail Bridges”—a series of 360+ degree turns in the road used for elevation gain instead of the standard switchbacks; descending was a blast! Along the way there were three short tunnels through solid rock, two of which pointed directly to Mount Rushmore such that as one exits the tunnel the sculpture comes plainly into view across the valley. On an absolutely gorgeous summer day, I was appreciating my bicycle as much as ever before, despite riding with a run shoe since apparently I hadn’t packed my bike shoe in the bag with all my other workout gear. Also, the discomfort Stumpy experienced didn’t stand a chance in compromising my attitude that morning.

En route to Boulder, we had one more stop, Crazy Horse, the massive sculpture-in-the-works of the Lakota warrior chief just southwest of Rushmore. A couple years ago I had spoken to a group in Rapid City, sponsored by the Hartford. My host that day offered me an exclusive trip to the top of Crazy Horse should I ever be in the area again. We’re so glad I took advantage of the offer because standing atop that great work of art, gazing up at that 87-ft face from chin-level was truly awe-inspiring. Can’t wait to go back in 40 years and see how it’s coming along!

That night we made our way to Cheyenne. By noon on the 6th day, August 25th, we were at our new temp rental home at 325 South 43rd St, Boulder, CO!

We were all thrilled to be back where we consider “home,” sorry, Ma… Unpacking the UHaul turned out to be quite the unpleasant procedure as the pain Stumpy experienced on the Mt. Rushmore ride turned out to be another one of those cellulitis infections I’ve been battling for the last three years. By the next day Stumpy looked like a big, beat up cantelope and I was relegated to crutches and fevers (cold then sweaty, etc.) for three days before finally donning the bike leg and getting out for a ride on the last day of August. As I rode down the familiar bike path I had ridden upteen million times en route from my old home to the roads north of Boulder, I inavertently let out a high decibel, “We’re BAAAA-AAACK!!!!!”