Alexey Talai spent a night in our home last year—he’s a friend of a friend—and in 24 hours taught my family and a couple friends that all people are capable of accomplishing great feats to benefit others. He has single-handedly created a home for both orphans and people with disabilities in his country of Belarus. Single-handedly isn’t a fair description…since Alexei, at age 16, lost both arms and legs to a decades-old World War II landmine buried on his grandfather’s farm.

Alexei has come upon hard times with funding, not only his orphanage, but also his personal home. He and his wife have recently split and she has custody of their two boys. (I know nothing of the circumstances.) Understandably, according to Belarus law Alexey is liable to provide a home for his boys; a man of his character would do nothing less. The struggles he faces—with his physical condition and immovable devotion to his foundation for the needy—are nearly incomprehensible.

I’ve decided to dedicate my Boston Marathon this April to Alexey’s Dream Foundation. alexeysdream.com and cafeindependence.webs.com

Would you please consider joining Sharon and me in assisting this man and his orphanage in Belarus with a financial contribution? I’ll run the 26.2. All you gotta do is visit cafeindependence.webs.com/forhelp.htm to donate via PayPal (see the yellow “Make a Donation” button on the right hand) or send a check payable to Robert Harris, CAE and indicate “for Cafe Independence” in memo line. Funds will promptly be wire to Belaus. Mail contribution to Alexey Talai c/o Robert Harris, 335 Beard Street, Tallahassee, FL 32303. Robert, Bob as he’s known, is a good friend of mine and has made it his personal mission to make Alexey’s Dream come true.

Again, please consider helping this brave and courageous man. You have my word that your contribution will be well spent. In doing so, for my own knowledge, please drop me a line and let me know you’ve chipped in (no need to disclose contribution).

With deep thanks,

Paul Martin

Following is a letter from Alex describing his circumstances:

Today I am at home with my sons. Outside sunny and frozen cold, water Freezes in a minutes! They play with the snow and have great fun. Vladik telling me if we can take some Juice and To put it outside to made fruit Ice. And I was starting to think, can we allow ourselves it because of the cost of juice? If their father have enough money to do that?

Please don’t worry for us. Anyway, I will survive. I just want you to know actual, real situation about me and around me.   I just want make sure you understand everything, all situations.

I do the best I can in very difficult situation.

I need driver; I need gas for the car, wherever I go I spend money for gas (1 gallon = $2,75) and small compensation for my friend driver or 100% for driver who is not my friend or Arthur for free if he is free - working for food.

The country is not rich and in very difficult economic situation. Very difficult earn extra money.

You helped me to visit USA to become great opportunity. It is Great opportunity! It was my decision to invest more my private time not for family but for social work, to help children in needs. I didn’t expect that the payment for this my decision will be so big – My Family, my Boys. I lost my family and should pay them indemnification for our apartment or buy house. It is my Responsibility as a father not as a husband.
I needed in more quantity of money than I expected one year ago for building and heating. Because of financial crisis the price have crazy jumped up for everything - Building materials, food and gas.

In this very difficult situation and very limited Financing from out, I have achieved some success.   I did some PR for Foundation and great USA people in nation media on TV and newspaper.   I start new website with 0% Readiness. Found webmaster and web designer who working almost for free.   25 January I have bought the house for my children and Maria for $10.000 because they don’t have a place to live.
I almost (98%) finished office building, building have heating, electricity and rebuild stone ladder.
And I try to fix all this problems alone, at the same time without help.

Now I do not have money for my living, even for food. Yesterday I paid €200 (EUR) for builder for the staircase. At Monday I need to pay him another $80 when the stairs will dry up and after he will tidied up there. I do not have this $80… I want you, another my US friends to know (I don’t know who necessary this to know(Your decision who is OK to know it)) about this very difficult situation in my life and how I struggle for it. If somebody can help some way it will be great. I have worked very hard to build the building where will be our foundation, I did PR in USA and Europe. I just need some more investment To continue successful development.
…

With Respect, Alexey Talai
Inspirational Speaker. Founder and Executive Director © Alexey’s Dream Foundation Help for Orphans Children and Children with disabilities 850 228 2222 USA phone
011 375 29 1255242 Belarus phone
www.alexeysdream.com

Something tangibly notable always comes from time spent on stage. In Wichita it was the 16 year old boy who accompanied his mother. He was suspended from school for some minor infraction she withheld, and, hence, “Take Your Son to Work for Three Days” suddenly fell upon each of them. She was headed out of town to a conference and I suspect he was less than happy to receive the invitation.

The woman approached me afterward and said “he was meant to hear you today.” Which, in turn, confirms that I, too, was meant to be in Wichita that day…

In the nation’s capitol, I was honored to speak at Anytime Fitness’s annual conference. The event was held at the Omni Shoreham, the same place Julia Robert’s filmed The Pelican Brief, where Frank Sinatra serenaded Nancy Reagan and where numerous presidential inaugural balls have been held. I took the stage feeling on top of my game and the 800 attendees in the audience bounced the energy back at me and left me feeling oh-so-good about my job. It’s always a thrill to have folks from the crowd introduced themselves afterward and tell me their own stories of attitude over adversity.

Mr. Ego was happy when a couple of business owners approached looking to fill keynote slots at their respective upcoming conferences. “Consider yourself booked!” never gets old!

In Indianapolis a couple days later the highlight would have to be meeting Amir from Pakistan. He told me how he’d emigrated to the United States in his early twenties, unable to speak English, yet earned an engineering degree. After 30 years with General Motors he felt he needed a change a deeper purpose. He then went back to school for a degree in social work so that he might be able to help others who wish to make it in America. He’s having trouble making ends meet these days since, somewhat obviously, there’s little money to be made in his new profession. After telling me his story, he said I inspired him to “find a way to make my challenges work for me instead of against me, like you did.”

Whether you’re born on American soil, a naturalized citizen or an immigrant looking to make a difference, may the blessings follow wherever your heart leads you and may your famines be followed by feasts.

It’s not like I haven’t been doing much: In August I traveled to Copenhagen, for the second time this

Finisher's medal!!!!

summer, both on the behalf of Ossur, my prosthetics sponsor. This time it was just a little sprint triathlon on a Thursday night—400m swim, 18k bike, 4k run. To warm up I swam the course, reverse direction, and midway through I floated on my back a bit and thought about my good fortune to be getting paid to float on my back.

One hour and two minutes later the race was over and in that short time two “for the first time ever”s transpired. I always always always pass more people on the bike than pass me; not this time (rented road bike vs the other aero bikes probably played a role). I always always always get passed by more people on the run than I  pass; not this time. Can’t really explain this one. I ran 7:01 min miles, nothing crazy.

This little race was part of a bigger weekend of racing: there’s a fairly new Ironman-distance series call the “Challenge Family,” with races in Europe and a few other places. I was asked to address the 2200 athletes at Challenge Copenhagen over the PA system while they buzzed around the swim/bike transition at 6:45am, minutes before they started their 140.6-mile day—226 kilometers in their world.

I pretty sure not a single athlete paid attention. I was told the the media would be listening… Here’s what I had to say.

It’s gonna be a great day people, a great day indeed. There shall be pain and you shall like it!

You know, there was once a time you’d be considered god-like for completing the marathon. That wasn’t very long ago. Well, the ante has been raised, my friends. The head table once reserved for marathoners now requires an Ironman finish: 226 is the new 42!

In your pursuit of this head table you have logged many, many hours in training. You have sacrificed your free time, your vacations and your kids’ soccer games. This year all of your Monday mornings have been spent in the pool, your Saturdays on the bike and your Sundays on the run. All for the sake of today’s finish line.

There are more than 2200 of you competing today and something like 1000 of you are first-timers. Bravo to you, marching off into this world of relative unknown.

You first-timers are very brave men and women. You are young and you are old and you may or may not be experienced in the swim or the bike or the run but you have yet to put them all together for 12….or maybe 17…straight hours, and yet you are not afraid. You are ready!

Each of you has a different goal today. Some of you will be earnestly racing each other while most will be competing against yourselves, aiming for a certain time goal that you, or maybe your coach, have chosen. And, undoubtedly, there are a few of you who will be racing the 17-hour cut-off itself.  You are the bravest of all. I commend you.

Each of you has also had your own unique challenges in preparing for today, some of these challenges have been monumental!

Many of you have struggled just to find the time. That…is…by…far the biggest obstacle age-groupers face, finding those extra 20 hours in the week. Extra really doesn’t define those hours, does it? I mean, there’s really no such thing as extra time. It really does boil down to sacrificing something, or, more accurately, sacrificing lots of things. The sacrifices you must make present an enormous challenge. And, again, I commend you.

Many of you have battled through injuries during your preparation. The pain your backside feels on your long rides is nothing compared to the problems your knee or your back or your shoulder has been giving you. You’ve spent more time with your physiotherapist than your spouse!

And therein lies another major obstacle. Maintaining healthy relationships is a notoriously huge and very real challenge Ironman triathletes face. I ask you: what’s more important that your loved-ones? That’s right: nothing! And yet we chose, and they allow, time apart for you to complete this very important goal. I commend them, also.

Many of you have doubted yourselves and felt an on-going concern for not training as much as you feel you should have, for whatever multitude of reasons there are for not finding the time. That’s very typical and that’s nothing to feel guilty about; life gets in the way of training. That’s the way it is. And yet you’re here to race. That’s just awesome.

And all of you have subjected yourselves to these rigors because you crave the experience—whether it’s your first or your 21st Ironman—you crave the glory of the finish line and all the wonders it brings with it. The emotions, the pride and the message it sends to those around you. The limitless feelings of accomplishment that will overwhelm you are only achieved through this effort: you can’t buy them, you can’t borrow them, nor can you win them in the lottery. You must pay your dues to sit at this table. That is why we compete in extreme endurance events: because it is the only way to know our limits. It’s the only way to eliminate the self-doubt. It’s the only way to know who we really are.

Show me an Ironman triathlete and I’ll show you a person of integrity. Show me all those who dare complete this distance and I’ll show you the world’s finest individuals. They know no excuses. Their beauty lies in their willingness to push beyond the pain to find the beauty in the pain itself. This is where we discover ourselves and nothing in this world is more comforting that knowing our mental fortitude.

To those of you who reach the finish line today, it will be an honor to have you at our table. I am extremely proud of the Ironman badges that I wear and I’m confident that you will be also.

So, I wish you good luck today in your pursuit of this finish line…226 kilometers away.

And remember:

I har fortjent smerten I dag. Nyd den.
(EE har forCHENT SMERTin ee day. NOO den.)
[You have earned your pain today. Enjoy.]

Not sure how many understood my Danish either…

A couple weeks later I headed back to Oregon to run the Hood to Coast on behalf of The Hartford, that fabulous company that’s been so good not only to me, but also to every US Paralympian. A bit to write about here, I suppose.

Hood to Coast is a 197-mile, 12-person relay run. The team splits up into two “vans” of six; we were Van 2, I was the first leg of Van 2, which meant I was first to run after the Van 1 runners each completed their first legs. One-legged stud Jeff Glasbrenner handed me the baton.

I ran my 6 miles then got in a van with six other soon-to-be-smelly men. After our assignments we dispatched to a hotel room in downtown Portland where we all showered and then (despite telling myself I wouldn’t) ate way too much food at the fancy steak house they sent us to for dinner.

A few hours later I ran with a still-bloated belly at 11pm in pitch-darkness with a broken headlamp up and down steep hills that were lit up only by the support vehicles that would come by every 30 seconds or so. (Frankly, since I’m always focused on where my feet are striking—stiff ankle lends to hyperextension of the knee if I step on something funny—it was both liberating and exhilarating to run blindly downhill!). The downside of running sub-6s on a steep downhill is that the leg turnover is fast, the impact is violent, the prosthesis gets sloppy and I tore a large, deep blister into Stumpie, which rendered the remaining two miles a difficult charge. When I pulled over to the van to first view the damage, a teammate said he’d take over the rest of my run.  I said, “Shut the f**k up!” Then I said, “Sorry…just a bit amped up right now.”  He said, “I’d have said the same thing.”
(Well, maybe I do have a few things to say.)

Then back in the van for a little off-and-on shut eye while my vanmates ran their designated sections. Many hours later, as my last leg (that’s what the segments are called, not my fault) approached, I told the others there was a very slim chance I’d be able to run. Of course, everyone volunteered to share the duty. Yet, when my number was up, I felt I should at least give it a go.

It began with the hop-skip technique—hop on the good leg and swing the blistered one forward—it’s all about not bending the knee and reducing the impact as much as possible. Soon I was in a little groove, Stumpie stop complaining quite so much and I was able to run leg-over-leg, normal style, albeit very slowly. The uphill sections were easier and the downhill sections were tough, but, thankfully, it was a fairly flat leg. Those final four miles took 45 minutes. Like most things in life, the tough ones are the ones we’re proud of.

Oh yeah, one more thing. Sharon and I teamed up for an off-road duathlon in Tabernash, CO, a couple weekends back and took first in the relay division, beating the men’s teams!  Full disclosure: I think there were 5 teams…

Like I said earlier, I don’t have much to say so I’ll wrap it up with this: Last month I received a call from the US Paralymipcs. They were in need of filling a spot on the US Olympic Committee’s Athlete Advisory board. It was an honor to be asked and I’m now the AAC’s Paralympic Cycling representative, a volunteer position. My first meeting was this past weekend in Colorado Springs at the Olympic and Paralympic Assembly. (It was a thrill to spend time with athlete reps from every Olympic Sport. I shared the dinner table with speed walking, speed skating, team handball, figure skating, bowling and curling; what a diverse crew!)  I walked in on Friday knowing next to nothing and left on Saturday night with some direction, feeling not only incredibly blessed to represent my fellow athletes, but motivated to advocate on their behalf.

Perhaps not having anything to say is good… As always, thanks for taking the time.

“When the student is ready, the teach will appear.” This old saying appeared near the end of the book I just finished titled “The Hero’s Choice,” by Roger K. Allen. This book was my teacher—apparently I was ready.

Two weeks past, in Colorado Springs, I presented a short dialogue of my personal history to a group of insurance folks while representing a long-time sponsor of both myself and the US Paralympics, The Hartford. In the audience that day was a local broker named Ivan. In the parking lot just outside the “West Wing” of the US Olympic Training Center, he thanked me for sharing my story before handing me a copy of “The Hero’s Choice.” He’d received a signed copy from the author at a leadership conference the author had directed. In thanking Ivan, I mentioned the timing was perfect because the day before I’d wrapped up reading Andre Agazzi’s “Open”—highly recommended, which I read on the tails of closing Keith Richard’s “Life,” another fascinating tale—and was in need of another read. I was less than sincere in this statement, not intending to crack this gift before giving attention to a couple of other books I had in line. But something urged me to grab it at the last second as I scrambled to get myself to the airport, two days ago, en route to Pensacola Beach, FL, to present to the closing breakfast attendees of the Louisiana Oil Marketers and Convenience Store Association’s (LOMCSA) annual meeting.

I’m now sitting on the plane back to Denver, moments ago enjoying the closing pages of the divinely-received publication.

On stage yesterday I told the audience, as I sincerely state during the majority of my engagements, that I look forward to every unsavory experience in my life because nearly each is followed by something sweet. I won’t bore you with the long list, however they come in all shapes and sizes. Tuesday’s scramble to get out of the house resulted in my wallet failing to make the trip with me. This dawned on me 20 minutes into my already tight drive to the airport. The quick turnaround to retrieve it and get back on the road wasn’t quick enough: I arrived at the ticket counter 28 minutes before scheduled departure, two minutes past cut-off. The resulting sweetness came in the form of an extra four hours at the airport—plenty of time to catch up on stuff…and to read. (Since July 2, I’ve been working incessantly on a 47′x12′ deck, 10 feet off

the ground, off the back of the house. The venture has been mostly solo but a few wonderful neighbors and friends have provided helping hands on the heavy stuff—the kids have been enjoying the TV time!).

I reached my hotel bed in Florida at nearly half past midnight. Before falling off to sleep, I phoned the front desk to delay my wake-up call from 5:45 to 6:45—the morning swim in the crystal clear waters of the Gulf, lapping upon the white sand beaches, would have to wait until my next visit.

The morning’s presentation went well, the folks who brought me in gave my ego just what it yearns for: high praise. However, those kind words paled in comparison to the words from Jack, a man who’s face, fitness—and hair!—made it hard to believe he’s already reached his 50th year. “I’ve been feeling quite depressed lately and your words were exactly what I needed to hear. Thank you so much.” Jack fought back some tears as his beautiful wife and handsome children made their way toward the door. One can only guess what a man of his blessings has to be depressed about, but, nevertheless, the suffering is real and all I could do was be thankful we shared the same space that morning.

I finished personalizing the copies my books the organizers had bought for all in attendance before grabbing a cab back to the airport. (Including sleep, 12 hours at a luxury Hilton isn’t enough!) We boarded on time, yet sat on the tarmac for a good 45 minutes due to a back-up at my connecting airport in Charlotte, NC—nasty lightning storm. Upon our approach to Charlotte, we were put in a holding pattern as the captain waited out the storm. Thirty minutes of this had burned up the fuel; we would now have to land at the nearby Greensboro/Spartansburg airport. In the end our connections were canceled and four hours after our scheduled landing time in Charlotte, they put us on a bus and drove us there, 90 minutes away.  All of these delays, of course, gave me plenty of time to read…

The protagonist in the book is a guy by the name of Hal. In short, Hal gets fired from his job as managing partner of a $60 million real estate company he founded. Not surprisingly, he’s furious about his perceived “railroading” by the board of directors—his partners—but discovers, through his newly-found friendship with an elderly man, that he’s created his own reality and it’s up to him to own up to it and to choose the appropriate response.

Why did this book impact me so? Primarily because Hal’s tendency to blame other’s and to retreat from conflict traces back to his relationship with his father, a man whom Hal always “perceived” as cold and heartless; a man Hal was always trying to impress but failed to meet his father’s expectations of him…or so he thought. Through out his life, Hal made assumptions regarding his father’s motivations and also falsely assumed his father new what Hal was feeling.

And those experiences run parallel to mine. Thoughts of my father have consistently brought resentment for as long as I can remember. And not necessarily for any great fault of his. I truly believe I’ve let certain comments fester beyond their worth. I can’t tell you how many hard-charging training miles on my bike have been fueled by anger, by the toxicity I’ve allowed myself to wallow in. Much of my own creation.

I’m quite certain my dad will not actually read this entry. But I could be wrong. And for this latter reason, I’m putting this in writing. To him, on occasion, I’ve alluded to the root of what I consider our tenuous relationship, but have yet to make a “hero’s choice” of meeting it head-on, sharing my perceptions of him, asking him to do the same. He needs to hear this from me, not read it. So now I must make the call.

Wish me luck.

Paul

PS.  A couple days later I made the call. Sparring the details, what a tremendous relief to open up the door to healthier relationship…

I tell my wife, Sharon, of the offer and she immediately has the solution (I’m ever-so-thankful that she always does!): “You go run your marathon, I’ll pick up your mother from the airport…and I’ll go to the show with Cathy!”

Other than missing what would be sure to be one of the greatest shows I’d ever get a chance to experience, the plan had no holes.

At seven the next morning I ran a 12-miler before joining the family at Jack’s 9am Saturday morning soccer game. Had they kept score, it would’ve been like 10-1.

The following Saturday I knocked off a 14-miler (between long runs were managed one 50-minute treadmill run, one lunchtime pick-up game of hockey, one late-night league game, and one 75-minute bike ride with Hawk and Luke asleep in the Burley), ending at the soccer field to witness Jack’s 10 o’clock team schooling.

Saturday #3 witnessed a relatively successful 17-mile run en route to soccer (maybe a total of three goals in three games). The next day I had the beginnings of a boil on Stumpy.

MRSA (known as “mersa”)—that haunting SOB who’s taken up residence in my immune system for the last five years—decided to make another showing atop my fibular head (the bony prominence at the top of the fibula, just below the knee to the outside). In my case, MRSA manifests itself as boils. These topical infections of this skin are extremely tender and when you are forced to bear 162 pounds on them with every step, they’re simply agonizing. I walked for the next few days since the nastiness wasn’t full blown nasty just yet, and even managed to play hockey Wednesday night with the help of a couple pain killers. Then I spent some days on crutches.

What? You advise that maybe I should’ve taken up the crutches earlier? Save it. I’m really, truly not interested in your opinion. (Is it obvious that nearly 20 years of unwarranted advice has worn on me?)

I was cool with crutching it for a few days before the weekend’s long run. Saturday came and I was still on crutches. Sunday, no crutch, but no can run either. Moving right along, I couldn’t manage more that 30 minutes on the treadmill, nor the road, nor the itty-bitty indoor track at the gym for the next three weeks. The boil didn’t hang out for too long but the residual hole took much longer than anticipated to heal and even when the skin completely covered it, I was left with a needling sensation that just wouldn’t quit. Six days before the race I had to bail after a quarter mile…

When I first accepted the offer, I figured with five or six long runs and some good mid-week training I’d be able to muster a 3:45 marathon, maybe a 3:30 if the stars aligned. Due to the lack of training I resolved to a hopeful sub-four—that is, if that needle was gone. Assuringly, one thing I’ve learned racing for the last 17 years: Stumpy always comes through on Race Day!

(I should note that cycling was still quite painful, but hockey only hurt mildly when I sat on the bench! I maintained some level of fitness by skating my ass off twice a week.)

Yesterday, May 22, 2011, Stumpy shined once again!

I’ll give just a bit more backstory before moving on. Last Tuesday I flew to Boston and due to a delay in Dallas got to bed around 2am…in a hotel room that had yet to be serviced since the last visitor. The only room available, of course. Luckily this was a double and the other bed hadn’t been touched. Just bring me a clean towel!

Up at seven for a 9am presentation at The Bostonian Group, a sizable insurance brokerage just steps away from the Boston Marathon finish line. The CEO claimed it a successful delivery which left me feeling back on track. I delivered another talk that night to the employees of Athol Savings Bank, a small bank in North Central Mass.

The next day was my sister’s graduation ceremony and she had by far the biggest smile of the three hundred plus graduates in attendance! So proud of you, Elaine Woodward!!!!

The next night (after a relatively painless 30-minute run) was Elaine’s “pinning ceremony” and with her last name falling alphabetically where it does, she was second to last in this ritual. I stayed right up until the big moment, 7:30pm, then promptly leapt into the rented Suburban for my hasty trek back to Logan Airport. I arrived at the gate of my 10:55pm flight to Copenhagen 10 minutes before boarding. Slept an hour, maybe, on the flight to Denmark, via Paris. Arrived at 3pm and would be back on a plane in 34 hours! Bedded by 10pm Copenhagen time, Skyped my family and talked with my mom who was now in Colorado holding Hawk, our youngest, before getting a solid seven hours.

The Race: the plan was to go out easy—maybe 9:00-9:30 pace and see how it goes. (Let me add here that Scout Bassett, an above knee amp, was also brought in to run. She’s the coolest 4′8”, 74 pound 22-yr old UCLA Anthropology major I know! She and I started together at the gun as she set out to set a new PR.) By Mile 8 I was still feeling well in Body, Mind, and Stump. At the half-marathon point I felt I could pick it up some. By then I had stopped two, maybe three times to reboot and a couple times to dangle.

I checked my watch: elapsed time, 1:50.

It began to rain.

A few more miles, the rain had subsided, the clouds remained and the temps were back to high 60s/low 70s. A little sweat, but overall quite a comfortable conditions, on, as you may have presumed, a very flat course. Nary a hill in all of Denmark!

As is always the case, as the race progressed the dangles and reboots came with increasing frequency, but nothing terrible and nothing I haven’t experienced a thousand times (that might not be an exaggeration). With 7 miles to go I felt quite good, really started to pick it up and began passing more and more runners. With 4 miles to go I felt far better than expected and turned it up another notch. My Garmin 205 GPS noted a sub-seven minute pace, 6:45 at one glance. Couple more dangles/reboots…

Before I hit the finish line I started to fade a bit, yet I was all fired up knowing that my system could pull-off a respectable performance with such little training. As the line approached and I was about to notch a 3:49:55 marathon, I smiled and gave a little shout-out to the sweet spirit that allows such moments to transpire.

For years I put miles in the bank. Thankfully, I was able to withdraw a few on a rainy day in Denmark.

Twenty or so men and women of various disabilities (many below-knee amps, aka trans-tibial or BK like me) took up the offer for the all-expense paid trip to the white sandy beaches to learn from certified triathlon coaches and several of us who have already put in thousands of miles. Several from the group were injured in the conflicts overseas, and, as I’ve mentioned before, that’s where the true reward is: being able to help those who’ve sacrificed so much for the rest of us. “Wounded Warriors” has become the popular moniker. (Can’t tell you how often I’m asked if I’m an injured vet!)

The accommodations couldn’t have been better than that of The Portofino at Pensacola Beach. My 14th floor condo overlooking the ocean was a real surprise—we’re typically housed on more of a budget, but I suppose these condos were sponsored to some degree by the management.  A fabulous dinner started things off on Thursday night along with introductions of staff, mentors and campers. Breakfast was served 6am sharp and by 8am, after building our bikes and going over bike fitting and prosthetic issues, the BKs were on the treadmill for gate analysis and the other groups were either in the pool or on the bikes.

I was not there so much to coach as to be the example of how to it should be done, or as close to ideal as I could manage. Even my bad habits have improved over the years! One of the coaches, Sorgio Borges of X Training, put me on the treadmill first to demonstrate proper form: slight lean forward, not bent at waist; loose shoulders and arms, latter in tight; quick, light foot strikes; head looking 8-10 feet ahead; etc. Many of the others had great running strides already, some of whom were still running on walking legs—no Ossur Run-Flex feet (C-shaped carbon) most of us are now on. They still ran great and have nowhere to go but faster and smoother.

It didn’t take long to take a liking to Kent Solheim, an Army Green Beret who lost his lower leg to a close-quartered fire-fight in Iraq. I hope I am at liberty to quote him: “I’d shot one guy from about 10 ft, then stood over him and capped him, just then his buddy came from another room and put four bullets though my legs.” Man…hard to even comprehend.

Later that day were in the pool for swim-stroke analysis. This was good stuff for me too. As of late, with a return to the water after not spending much time at all in there in the past few years, one of the Boulder YMCA coaches has been helping me to slow down my stroke and stretch out a little more. In the pool this week was Mike Garlan from Asphalt Green in NYC and Coach John Murray from the Multisport Performance Institute in Pensacola. Each were fabulous instructors whose tips will surely benefit my future competitions. Mike put my middle fingers “on rails” (unbeknownst to me I’ve been S-stroking) and John got me “reaching over the barrel” to grab more water. Each of these theories of proper technique I am familiar with, but little did I know I wasn’t executing them properly. These faults were proven in the underwater video clips they provided me on DVD, which I watched earlier on this flight back to Denver. (And my single leg kick has been grossly inefficient, bending nearly 30 degrees creating massive drag!)

That night myself and Eric Averill, a Boston resident, fellow Boston Bruins fan, and VP at USA Triathlon headed down to the local sports bar with a gazillion TVs to watch the Bs complete their sweep of the Philadelphia Flyers and move on to the Eastern Conference Finals!  GO Bs!!!!!!!!!!!!

Our training grounds at Pensacola Beach were a 200 meter wide strip of land that extends east of Pensacola with the Gulf of Mexico to the south and Pensacola Bay to the north. On Saturday morning we were on the bay side practicing open water swim technique. Several of the campers had never swam in open water. One camper, Earl Barnes, a firefighter who’d lost his leg on a murdercycle, is a former college swimmer and showed me the line around the buoys and back. I later found out he could ride a bike too!

From there we went straight to a local middle school track to work on run form drills and knock off descending 200s. My first track workout in forever! Felt good. Loyal Pyczynski, A 25ish-year old congenital hand amputee—built like a runner—ran away with the “fastest guy at camp” award.

After the Subway sponsored lunch and some lectures from the MPI staff, we headed out for out ride, broken up into groups based on ability. The more experienced guys and gals rode 13.5 miles out to the end of the peninsula and back. Things had started to wind up toward the half way point and it was soon made clear that Kent had also ridden before. Turns out before joint the army, putting on lots of muscle mass and becoming a member of the Special Forces, he was a Cat 1 cyclist!

On the return trip, into the wind, two of the guys—understandably, the two above-knee amputees—had gotten dropped from the pace. Since I was there as a mentor, I wouldn’t have been much of one had I left them out to dry, so I hung back and began pulling them back to the hotel. Soon thereafter Coach John came back and helped with the work. Then the bottomless pit of energy and chatter known as Peter Harsch—prosthetist at the San Diego Navy Medical facility, builder of several of these boys’ legs, and tremendously talented Ironman athlete—came back to us along with Coach Mike Sortino of MPI to help get everyone home. Shortly thereafter Peter, Mike and John lit it up off the back and began hammering it home. I hesitated, feeling I must hang with the other two, then it occurred to me that these two grown men behind me could ride a few miles home by themselves; I took off on chase. I’d waited too long and couldn’t catch them (as much as assumed I would!) but did get in 12 minutes of max time trial training!

That was pretty much the end of the program for me but one matter remained: I had to get to the beach mere steps away from my hotel and swim in the gulf. After an unexpected cat-nap, I crossed the road and was both reminded and amazed at how clear and beautiful and perfect the water is there! I swam for spell, then hurried back to grab a quick shower and catch the boat to dinner.

Up at 4:30 on Sunday morning for my return to Colorado and Mother’s Day brunch at the fabulous Green Briar Restaurant at the bottom of Left hand Canyon, a few miles north of Boulder, just down the road from where my dad built a house in 1972.

I think you might agree, life is what you make of it.

I have put three segments up on YouTube under the titles Comrades 1, Comrades 2 and Comrades 3. The last one is only 6 minutes and where you’ll get the most entertainment via suffering!  Please forgive the low-rate editing.  I hope you enjoy.

While much of my time as of late has been spent taking care of the boys (Jack 4, Luke 3, and Hawk 8 months), I have managed to find some time to swim, bike and run. Motivation has come directly from the recent inclusion of paratriathlon into the Paralympics in Rio 2016. I’m back on the National Team and will race in London in August for Paralympic promotion and, most likely, at the London 2012 Paralympics as an exhibition—non-medal event.

I’ve also been playing hockey 2-3 times a week. Our bush league team plays tonight for the Championship trophy! Wish us luck. We’re the Parking Lot Hackers!

Wishing you the best,

Paul Martin

Our little one, 7-month old Hawk Gordon—which only now as I type his name does it elude to the hitherto unknown son of Flash—is simply (in a three way tie for) the best baby in the world! You know, the smile, the laughs, the gorgeous blue eyes, the perfect nose, the fuzzy shapely bald head and, to top it off, the virtual omission of crying! Regardless of the ease of care Hawk’s manual truthfully claims, there remains the need to actually care for him: gotta feed him, gotta change him, gotta hold him (love it), gotta take him for walks, etc. Jack and Luke are still in the mix and becoming more and more active with skating lessons and basketball (on different days) and in four weeks, soccer starts (on different days). Additionally, being 4- and 3-yr olds, respectively, they are in a never-ending wrestling match that requires constant refereeing but also provides great entertainment.

There was a time when I could count on Jack and Luke to nap together for a couple hours while I did whatever I felt compelled to do. Now Jack skips naps most days and Hawk is rarely on the same schedule as Luke. I have yet to figure out how to, or find the equipment that allows me to, run or bike with all three of them at the same time. And when even one of them gets sick, the sanity-saving free “child watch” at the nearby Y, along the accompanying workouts, go bye-bye.

Nevertheless, with the ever-cyclical drive to train back on the upside, I am managing to squeeze in a few more workouts. Together with the break in the weather and Hawk being big enough, I’m getting in a power-specific bike ride or two each week pulling the two younger ones around for a couple hours when Jack spends two mornings in pre-school. On the days that Sharon goes in a bit later or gets home a bit earlier, I’m finding time to run. And that YMCA child-watch truly has been fabulous, allowing me more workouts and, more importantly, time to play a good amount of drop-in lunchtime hockey. (I also recently joined a night time men’s league: family sleeps, I skate.) I’d probably be getting even more sweaty if we weren’t getting to the mountains as much as we can to ski. Jack and Luke absolutely love it and this couldn’t make me happier!

A return to triathlon training has become necessary for one big reason: The International Paralympic Committee has awarded Paratriathlon a spot in the 2016 Games! While I don’t see myself competing in Rio de Janeiro at 49 years of age, I’d very much like take part in the expected exhibition event in London 2012. To that end, I’m back on the national gimpy tri team and will race at a couple of events in team colors this summer.

These demands have trumped the time available to pursue the speaking business. A few months ago I had written about our decision to keep me at home—shunning daycare and the short-lived au pair experiment—to focus on the boys’ upbringing without distraction and stresses of always trying to work the speaking business, i.e., the need to make all the phone calls, write the articles, and constantly think about the viability of the whole enterprise, not to mention the travel…while still taking care of the kids. Then Paralympic triathlon was added.

Which leads me to the welcomed notion that seeds of past sowings are beginning to bear fruit. While I’ve spent very little time recently caressing potential clients, I’m getting more work because clients are starting to call me! Those countless hours spent on the phone trying to establish myself in the thoughts of many, and the time I’ve spent on stage sharpening my delivery, have finally begun to pay dividends. Last week I booked three well-paying gigs in two days!  (The big-time professional speakers might think of this as routine, but I still get giddy from it.)

Moreover, recent gigs are somehow divinely interwoven into my travel. Let’s look, shall we: After a nearly a three-month dry spell, in late January I spoke to the folks at Accenture’s Denver office, a mere 30 minutes from home; a few days later I addressed the Self Storage Association’s Ski Meeting in Steamboat Springs, CO, a few hours’ drive, where they put the entire fam up at the ski-in, ski-out Sheraton—Sharon, the boys and I skied two full days and I spoke the evening in the middle—perfect; ten days before the event, The Hartford needed two “experienced” Paralympic speakers to represent at their 1300-person annual sales meeting, which happened to be the day before the family was to head to Disney World, thereby financing the entire Mouse House experience—awesome; I’m now sitting at a Panera near Boston, in between morning and afternoon high school presentations…covering the cost (and then some) of the family’s expenses for a Boston wedding (rehearsal dinner tomorrow night at Fenway complete with a personal tour of the park!), doubling also as Hawk’s introduction to my mother, sister, grandmother, aunts, friends, etc—excellent!

With all these blessings as of late, I’ve been feeling the need to give back in some way. To that end, I’ll shave my head.  The shaving will take place on March 17, St Patrick’s Day, in honor of Klaus Heiman. Klaus is a young cancer patient—joyfully, on the winning side of the battle—and I’m on his team to raise money for the St Balderick’s foundation. My goal is to raise $2500 via baldness—not all that much of a sacrifice on my part, I suppose… Anyway, please visit my fund-raising website to help kids who need our help.

Finally, great things are happening with my wife…but I’m sworn to secrecy!

So, Paratriathlon in 2012, great work starting to come my way, lunchtime hockey, a happy wife and kids who love to ski—and we’ve hired a house-cleaner!!!

All this reinforces my commitment to my long-time motto:

Good things will happen!

The path I have traveled in the last 15 years has been lined with small- and large-scale athletic triumphs and defeats accompanied by pride regardless of the results. The ego has received additional fuel each and every time I get on stage to speak to audiences of varying size and description.

As of late, with the economy what it is (it couldn’t possible be me), I find myself struggling with a relatively stale speaking business and the onset of the deterioration of true athletic competitiveness, all the while trying to spend as much time with our children as possible. Prior to the arrival of Hawk—our third child, third “perfect” boy and last child we will procreate—I had spent a few hours a day, a few days a week on the business (outside of travel and execution), all the while ditching domestic responsibilities like cooking and cleaning, which, ultimately, creates more stress for Sharon each and every time she comes home to a mess and we scramble to prepare dinner. Time making money—or at least trying to—is better spent than time attending to domestic matters. That’s been my reasoning.

Sharon’s stress is multiplied fourfold whenever I travel: the nanny shows up late (Sharon leaves for work at 6AM and often doesn’t return until after 6PM, rendering a daycare center impossible), the nanny does no cleaning or cooking or, apparently, disciplining whatsoever, and Sharon returns home after 11 hours in the O.R. with a sick and dying patient she and her crew weren’t able to save . . . and has to straighten up before making dinner for out-of-control boys riding a day-long wave of freedom.

She’s been a sleepless intern, an overworked resident, and a rookie—and often pregnant—for nearly the entirety of our seven-year relationship. She needs a break.

And to this end she has recently revealed to me her ideal world: she works and I stay home with the boys so that she might loose the stress and guilt of daycare altogether. (Thanks to Sharon’s brains, drive and work ethic, we’re in the blessed position of not really needing two incomes to get by.)

Hmmmm . . . You mean after the cultural conditioning that as a man my worth is measured by my ability to financially support my family; after years of peak fitness, world-class competition, world records, Ironman finish line glory and Paralympic medals; after experiencing the lucrative world of professional speaking with its egocentric instant validation and fat paychecks, I’m supposed to just fix breakfast/lunch/dinner, respond to “Code Brown,” do the laundry, play taxi driver, clean the toilets, scrub the floor, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera?

Yeah, that’s what she meant, with all due respect.

So that’s what I’ve been doing these past few weeks, by choice, for the time being anyway, shelving the duties of pursuing the speaking business—however, I’ll certainly fulfill the engagements already on the calendar and take the work that comes my way.

And now I have the joy of telling you that deciding to do so has been a great move.  I didn’t so much make the decision as much as clarity fell upon me one day after cleaning the house while the boys were napping and preparing a nice dinner before my bride’s homecoming. In the process—and this might sound ridiculously obvious—I felt like I was actually taking care of my family. Suddenly, I was proud to having embraced the role. The pride, contentment and clarity continued when Sharon came home to clean digs, a hot meal and calm children. Mind you, it’s not like I hadn’t ever done this before, but this time I shunned the drudgery and begrudgery. I had discovered the secret to happiness: willful domestication.

Sharon told me the other day that she’s so glad I’ve come to embrace the role; she said, “I can see you’ve found something, you’ve been so happy recently and you haven’t been happy for awhile.” And there you have it. To be happy you need nothing more than acceptance of your situation. You need to do what’s best for your family, whatever that might be because we know everyone has a different set of circumstances.

We also know we must also be flexible and continually adjust as need be: the only reason I have the time to write this is because I’m on a flight to Boston for two speaking gigs in the next two days.

The picturesque scene at the Timberline Lodge at base of Mount Hood provided a fitting start for the race and it was all downhill from there! While there were 1000 teams—12,000 people—in the race, not all teams start at the same time and so there’s ample room on the mountainside. Start times span across a 12-hour period, beginning at 6:30am; our team’s punishment began at 11. After the traditional team photo with the Mt Hood backdrop, Jeano started things off for Team AA with a 5-mile steep descent, followed by another similar leg ran by Tasha—later dubbed “Puker.”  Puker then handed the wristban off to her boyfriend, Darin—later dubbed “The Puker Cleaner-Upper” who handed off to Chris, who relayed to this writer who gladly passed on to Courtney, a man more manly than his name projects.

Not one mile into my 6.08 mile section I came upon a Canadian woman who looked an awful lot like a random runner I’d met at about mile 5 of last May’s 56-mile Comrades marathon in South Africa. As I passed her and had that thought, she said, “Is that you, Paul? It’s Cathy from Comrades!” The moment “Is” crossed her lips I knew it was her. I ran along side her for a brief spell and made the expected small talk about how cool it was to cross paths on the other side of the planet at another amazing event. She then told me to stop talking and start running…

The finish of my first leg ended with a 1.5 mile uphill push which I truly enjoyed pushing, “killing” as many competitors as I could before handing off to Courtney. Other than the blister on the very bottom of Stumpy that I imagined might suck later in the race, I was happy with the effort which took approximately 43 minutes (the time keeping system lacks exactness) or just over seven-minute miles.

After Courtney’s leg, Van 1’s duties were on hold while the other half dozen team members comprising Van 2 did their thing. Meanwhile, we were treated to showers and a fine dinner at Jeano’s athletic club in downtown Portland (I had the grilled salmon and mud pie/espresso desert!), near the second van transition, pictured here.
The crowd at the van transition erupted as Van 2’s closing runner, above-knee amputee Sandy Dukat, came around the corner.

Sandy handed off to Jeano before that half of the team headed out for food and a rest. Had Jeano had the good fortune of starting ten seconds earlier, two hundred yards later she wouldn’t have been at the front end of 150 other runners awaiting the passing of a boat under a Willamette River drawbridge! The stall lasted six minutes which I’m sure seemed like 30 to those stuck there.  (Jeano second run marked the beginning of darkness and, fittingly, her third and final leg, 12 runners later, marked the dawn of a new day.)

After we all had our second run, Van 2 took over at around 2am and we drove directly to the next van transition at an open field where the organizers had roped off a couple large rectangles for athletes to throw down their sleeping bags. These areas are then awashed in 10,000 mega watt spot lights to add to the sleep challenge—although they say the lights are to save athletes from getting run over by sleepy van drivers as has happened in the past.

I was rudely awakened in my 67th minute of sleep when Van 2’s recon man let it be known they had arrived. Jeano was off and running and we were soon packed up and on the road again.

Perhaps it was the dinner, the stop-n-starting of the van experience, or both, that caused Tasha’s innards to disagree with her, but in any case her anxiety rose as Jeano approached the exchange. She was already having trouble keeping things from exiting both designated in-n-out orifices and I was told later that my comment to her, “If you pass out or puke or crap yourself, just shake it off—or wipe it off,” which I yelled from across the street among many fellow runners, brought her nary an ounce of confidence.  A mile later she earned the Puker moniker. Perhaps we should have been a bit more respectful as the tough young lady didn’t walk a yard of the rest of her alloted mileage before puking again after handing off the wristlet…

Said wristlet was handed off in proper succession before I grabbed it for my final leg which began with a steep three-mile ascent followed by an equally steep three-mile descent. Given a choice, I’ll take an uphill battle any day; for me downhills are stump pounding/soundside quad pounding punishment. Yes, I often run these backward to lessen the discomfort, but since I was looking to go as fast as possible and since it would be over soon, I did my best to let it fly. In doing so, that blister from section #1 opened up and I was soon reduced to walking backward in search of the fastest, most manageable means of covering the next two miles. Thankfully, the final mile was less steep and at the third reboot I thought to move a sweat-loosened preventive-maintenance laden Tegaderm bandage from one area to loosely cover the pink, moist under layer of derm. This made a 12-minute mile shuffle manageable and I reached the transition with minimal misery.

Courtney then ripped into his final leg and soon Van 1 was headed to the finish line at Seaside beach for bratwurst, beers and bragging rights.  A couple hours later we were informed that our teammates in Van 2 were closing in and it would soon be confirmed that Team Amazing Awaits would set a new team record (this was the third year in a row The Hartford has sponsored this team). Sandy Dukat hobbled along the soft sand toward the finish line on her $30,000 above-knee prosthesis made with Ossur parts at A Step Ahead Prosthetics. The crowd cheered, the teammates put up the high-fives and it was confirmed, once again, that some segments of mankind are incomplete without self-induced suffering.