While there wasn’t a ton of time to play, I did spent some quality hours with my very good friend Joel Sampson and his family. Joel—a congenital right foot amputee—and I met at the Gimpy Triathlon World Champs in 1998; we’ve been thick as thieves ever since. We kinda look alike, too, and ten years back when a woman approached us at a night club and asked if we were brothers, we each yanked up our respective pant legs and said we were Siamese twins attached at the foot. She swallowed it…clearly after swallowing a lotta liquor. Sh then professed to being intimate once with an amputee “and it was allllllright.”

Dropping it back into third…

I spoke to a group of insurance brokers at The Hartford office on Thursday, then to the entire staff at ProService, a local payroll company, on Friday morning. The focus of the trip was a Friday afternoon talk with the National Association of Social Workers Assurance Services, Inc: NASW-ASI. This final presentation was a great fun and ended with wonderful questions along with an invitation to visit some women transitioning out of prison; I had to decline due to other plans, regretfully missing what I would expect to be some seriously stimulating conversation.

I talked up going on a long trail run the following morning; I was fortunate that the president of ProService was a runner and he pointed me in the direction of a gorgeous, fairly technical, muddy, duck-under-humongous-ferns trail that weaved along side of whatever mountains backdrop Honolulu.

Round trip was 3.5 hours and 15 miles. I’ll need to keep not only keep training hard, but race hard at least once more in the next few weeks—I discovered while on this trip that last weekend’s 50 plus kilometer trail race wasn’t fast enough to qualify me for Comrades Marathon. Looks like I’ll be marathoning somewhere soon…

(Speaking of the run, if you’re the least bit into fitness—or reading—you gotta read Born to Run by Christopher McDougall. I finished it on the flight home and was so fired up when I got home that I ran 20 miles yesterday at a pace 20 seconds faster than any of my recent long runs.)

Joel came to get me and we headed back to Waikiki Beach, just across from the Hyatt Regency where I was staying.

I made a solemn attempt to paddle board with limited success. After 30 minutes the paddle was dropped back at the beach in hopes of surfing-surfing but the lack of waves turned my quest into a float fest. Joel and his kids, Lauren and Carter, were also out there floating around in the sunshine so there was little to complain about.

Until dinner … when it finally became clear why my hands felt so naked: my wedding ring now resides in the same waters where Sharon and I honeymooned and where we lost our surfing virginity …

In the end, with the theme I drilled into the audiences over and over again in the previous days—”Make your adversities work for you, not against you”—Sharon and I have already agreed to renew our vows a scant five years into marriage with the diamond I’ve yet to buy her and the replacement ring the fine folks at J. Albrecht Jewelers in Boulder will be happy to sell me. They’re cool like that.

I signed up to use this event as booth an introduction to ultra-marathoning and as a qualifier to complete my official registration in the 56-mile Comrades Marathon this coming May in South Africa.

Many of Saturday’s runners were surprised at the difficulty of the course conditions, primarily due to the snow—8-12 inches of it from miles 11-12—and lots of slush and mud throughout.

Most of the runners were probably well aware of the technical difficulty of the course without the snow cover, but yours truly was completely ignorant. I naively assumed that when they make a race 34-mile running race competitors are going to able to run nearly all of it … or at least almost all of it.

My five hour and fifteen minute goal was completely blown out of the water and would have been in even the driest conditions. Those of you who’ve read any of my ramblings will know that this prosthetic leg of mine might not be much of an advantage, but rarely, if ever, has it been such a disadvantage.

The combination of the steep descents on slick rock and off-kilter footing throughout reduced me to a shuffle and a quick march for much of the event. (In retrospect I would have been well-served to use more of a walking type leg than a “C” shaped runner, particularly in 12 inches of snow!)

Things started out well with a long climb on snow-pack then leveled out for a nine-minute-mile followed by a couple of eights on a gentle downhill. Then we began climbing again things started getting technical: up and over and down rocky formations … some covered in snow. On occasion the obstacles were big enough that you had to reach for hand holds and much of it unrunnable for the early pack I was racing with.

When I was able to run I got in a few more nine minute miles, which was the goal pace, but 14-15 minute miles was the average. I even clocked a 28 minute mile!

Within that long mile came the highlight of the run: the view over the edge of a 1000 foot cliff. As I was marching up a hill I saw two women staring out behind me so I joined them to take in the view.

“This is nothing, go up to the edge over there and take a look over the canyon.” Since I wasn’t in it to win it, I made some fresh tracks through the snow 50 feet off course to take in on of the most amazing views I’ve ever seen with my feet on the ground (flying over NYC on a clear night might be the coolest).

The ground just disappeared below me.  Highway 191 sliced through the redness of the valley toward the town of Moab 10 miles to the south. Arches National Park was to the northeast and the 12,ooo foot snow-capped La Sal mountain range popped out of the rocks to the southwest. This is the stuff that makes getting out of the house worthwhile and was well worth the few minutes tacked on to my finish time.

That delight came a couple of miles after checkpoint and aid station #4 at mile 18. Runners had the option to drop off special needs bags at the start of the race to be brought by the blessed volunteers to any of the several aid stations throughout the course. I opted for a PowerBar and a 20-ounce PowerBar Endurance drink—sure glad I did because they ran out of water just as I arrived. I stopped to reboot Stumpie—as I had several times along the way—reloaded my CamelBak (a beverage bladder you wear like a backpack with a hose to sip from) and headed out.

The course was so slick in places that the trucks who brought the aid failed to reach the next aid station at mile 25—the poor runners who didn’t get a chance to rehydrate at #4 would have to go a long way without water. I was so glad I’d packed that extra drink! I depleted that store before the final station at mile 30 and ate some snow to hydrate in the meantime. I imagine lots of folks were doing that.

Less than a mile from the finish, at the top of ridge we were to descend via a steep four-switchback plunge, I heard the familiar “Cooooo-wee!” call of my wife Sharon down below. I looked down and saw her pink fleece and waving arms and that told me I was certainly about to finish. She ran the final few hundred feet with me where I met Jack and Luke and snatched them up before crossing the finish line.

My goal late in the race was to finish before the awards ceremony at 3:30. Not four seconds after I crossed the line the winners were announced.

Victory often comes in the form of stretching your limits despite crossing the finish line after everyone else.

Regarding the shoulder issue I told you about recently: Six weeks of physical therapy proved remarkably helpful in reducing pain and returning my ability to make it through a swim workout. Yet an occasion ache remains and certain movements continue to hurt. This prompted my orthopedist, Dr. Michael Repine, to schedule an MRI. That test showed a two centimeter tear in my labrum, the topmost tendon of the rotator cuff.

The good news is that it can be fixed. The only option to do so, as supported by Dr. Sharon Wetherall, is a complete detachment and reattachment of the labrum.

The bad news is that recovery time is four to six months for normal daily activity function. A year before full strength is returned.

The second piece of medical news started off a positive note. Since I began running on a prosthesis sixteen years ago, Stumpie has suffered from what I’ve come to consider a circulation issue, causing me to stop and dangle and/or reboot to subdue the pain and restore blood-flow. Though four different prosthetists have built me run legs over the years, the pain has been relatively consistent and I’ve always presumed the problem was some sort of fit issue; perhaps Stumpie is oddly shaped or constructed and, hence, a difficult fit…or something.

My current prosthetist, Erik Shaffer of A Step Ahead Prosthetics and Orthotics, proposed the problem could be vascular insufficiency. No one, professional or otherwise, had ever mentioned this possibility, nor had the thought ever crossed my mind.

Sharon highly recommended Dr. Nelson Mozia for a consult. He prescribed a CT angiogram to inspect the integrity the veins and arteries in Stumpie. The initial results were just what I was hoping for: both the veins and arteries are severely occluded. This is good news because we’ve finally found the cause, which means we can do something about it!

Well, after Dr. Mozio consulted with an interventional radiologist and a CT radiologist, they concluded that the occlusions were so severe and widespread that a fix was out of the question. Angioplasty will not work due to the severity and a surgical procedure could result in an above knee amputation if it were to go awry. I ruled that one out immediately.

The one non-surgical option is a blood-thinning medication called Plavix which might help much needed oxygen reach those little Stumpie muscles. In the short term I’ve opted to give this a go. I’m told it takes ten days for full effect—on Sunday’s 23 mile run, day 7 of the medication, I dangled and rebooted many times. Guess we’ll just have to wait and see…

In the meantime, I’ll be getting a second opinion.

The final trip to the doc was not for me but for the family doctor—Sharon. The ultrasound showed that there is indeed an embryo growing in her womb! Unquestionably the biggest challenge of the three.

I was asked to be part of a team of athletes headed to South Africa to partake in a staggering fund-raising effort to benefit African children. I would be expected to generate 100 sponsors willing to commit to a child for the next five years. To prove I was serious about the whole thing, I’d have to run the world’s oldest and greatest ultra-marathon, The Comrades Marathon: a 56-mile jaunt started 80 years ago to honor the fallen comrades of World War I.

My initial response was an emphatic “no,” the whole “run 56-miles” thing was a bit of a turn-off. Eighteen hours later something had shifted around in the cranium and all of a sudden I was anxious to start training and called back to commit.

It must have something to do with the enticement of a challenge, one I can’t say I was expecting anytime soon. Not surprisingly, such a task requires some serious training for most of us mortals. So on Saturday I ran 13 miles then ran another 20 on Sunday. Looks like I can expect similar workouts—just longer—for the next five months.

And you can expect that I’ll be looking at all avenues to gather the sponsors I’ve committed to generate. On that note, if you’re reading this, please consider. I’ll have more information available soon, but it’s something to the affect of $35/month to help an African child get an education, some food and clean water, and some clothes on his or her back.

Perhaps you can get a group together willing to sponsor as a team. Perhaps you can get your company, your fraternity brothers, your family or your basketball team to pool funds and commit with me.

Please come back to this site in the next few weeks for more information about how you can help. I know that the suffering I’ll experience on May 30 (not to mention the many, many miles and the many, many hours of preparation) will pale in comparison to living without the means necessary to live the lives we’ve been blessed with.

Still more info can be found at www.comrades4thekids.com and www.worldvision.org.

My time has primarily been spent caring for Jack and Luke, three and a half and two years old, respectively and Sharon has begun her career as an anesthesiologist at Lutheran Hospital in Wheatridge, CO, 18 miles south. We’ve hired a fabulous Peruvian nanny, Fabiola, who helps us out three or four days a week for a few hours a day.

I’d like to say that I’m so popular on the speaking circuit that the phone rings all by itself, however, not only am I not there yet but even the best of ‘em aren’t where they were just a year ago as professionals of my ilk are among the first to get scratched off the new budget in a pared back economy.

Alas, this gives me some time to retool and refocus not only on the speaking business but also on some other aspects of life. For instance, Jack and Luke have just carved their first ski tracks down the slopes of Vail; I’ve been playing hockey on Friday afternoons at the local YMCA (which also provides two hours of free child watch!); and the elder progeny recently stood/sat on the ice, mostly observing and crying, at his first hockey practice. We’ll try not to overload…

Sharon and I spent most weekends in October/November home shopping and we’re thrilled to have found one in Lafayette, just east of Boulder. It’s an enormous and gorgeous home, which we’re blessed to have come across and eager to get in to. We close on it next week, but will not be moving in until March 1. Our rental lease expires then and the current owners are waiting on their new home to be built, so they’ll be renting back from us.

My time and energy has also returned to training. With no home to remodel (as much as I liked it, I didn’t like the time sucking quality) or flights to board, the frequent rider miles have begun to grow along with some good quality runs. I swam for the fist time in three months a few days ago.

Which brings me to my latest health care provider, Jeff the Physical Therapist. Starting sometime earlier this millennium, my left shoulder began to ache on occasion, typically in the morning, but rarely to the point that I would even pay it an ounce of attention. About 18 months ago, it began aching when I would reach forward/overhead and be particularly bothersome both in the morning and at bedtime. Not that I did much of it, but I was still able to swim (and bike and run, which I always do more of) so I didn’t think too much of the pain—it would pass…

Just as last race season was getting underway, the discomfort I felt each morning concerned me that I wouldn’t be able to race in the coming months. Yet by the time I occasionally got to the pool at mid-morning, the pain would be relatively gone. This lasted all through the summer and right up to world champs in September. As much as I’d like to, I can’t blame my disastrous race and swim on this injury.

However, over the following few weeks of Ozzie vacation, the nights were getting worse and worse and progressing to the point where I’d wake up in the middle of the night unable to feel my left arm, the sensation subsiding in the aching shoulder. And when the arm didn’t go numb, then my left wrist would be very tender. One or the other.

Eight or nine weeks of this, and lots of ibuprofen, was about enough and about the same time we settled back into Boulder, Sharon started her new job, the health insurance got straightened and I was able to visit my new primary doctor and an orthopedic specialist at The Boulder Medical Center. The docs concurred that an impingement is to blame: the soft tissue between the rotator cuff and the underside of the bone that is the top part of the shoulder (acromion) gets pinched. This causes the pain. The numbing of my left arm is most likely caused by a pinched nerve in my shoulder, but in a different area than the aforementioned impingement. Whatever’s causing the numbness they feel is also referring the “pain” that I feel in my wrist, my brain not knowing the difference. Looks like I have an MRI to figure that part out in my very-near future.

So that brings me to Jeff of the Boulder Center for Sports Medicine who is doing a great job rehabbing me and this has allowed me to get back in the pool. Surgery may eventually come into play to gently reshape my acromion. If it does it won’t be for awhile since I’m focusing my efforts on the next year’s focal race: Ironman Canada, August 2010.

So, that being written, I gotta get the boys ready to head to the gym (the other local Y with free child watch) and work on my swim form. Slowly.

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.

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 and Jack aboard the Maid of the Mist

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.

Dad made the trip with us, along with Stepmom. Couldn't have done it without them

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!

Luke was not as thrilled a Daddy

The entire mountain will be a sculpture

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!!!!!”

Historically, he’s always buried in the swim and it’s a flip who’d beat who on the bike and run. This year I figured swimming with the current would deflate his lead some and perhaps I could better him on both the bike and run and we’d have an exciting sprint to the finish.

My 16:34 swim was solid and I came out not too far behind him, in stride with Jeff Glasbrenner and just a few seconds in front of J.P. Theberge, who’s been creeping closer and closer to my finish times over the past several years. For the first time in our many matchups, I was in transition along side Rivaldo, who took longer than I would expect to get out on the bike.

As I’m leaving T1, my aero bottle was all but falling out of its holder, which required me to stop and waste about 30 extremely frustrating seconds trying to fix it. I knew if I didn’t I might potentially suffer far worse losses from dehydration. In the meantime Rivaldo pulled away and both J.P. and Jeff joined me simultaneously in the chase. This was shaping up to be an exciting race. Never before have the first two, never mind the first four BKs, been so close to each other in any world-class triathlon, ever.

In the 12 miles that took us out to Yonkers, I relinquished about five seconds to Rivaldo. After the turnaround I didn’t see J.P. coming the other way, but presumed I had been opening up the gap as he has yet to match me on the bike. No sooner do I wonder just how far back he is, when he passes me! I was sincerely impressed and sincerely appreciate the competition. Rivaldo remained in our sites as the two of us exchanged leads over the next few miles.

Then he opened up a gap that kept getting bigger. His slightly inefficient body English told me he was working very hard, harder than me, it seemed. I didn’t have too much more power to provide and I opted to let him go and chase both him Rivaldo down on the run, which has been pretty good to me lately.

I entered transition after a 1:08:06 ride (not my fastest nor my slowest of my six consecutive NYC Tri’s) as JP exited and was out about five seconds behind Rivaldo when crossing the T2 exit mat (like in T1, he wasn’t so speedy in T2). I passed him before too long and kept up the best pace I could—not a terribly fast one but the best I could muster. Even on 72nd St, where athletes could see a good stretch in front of them, I didn’t see JP and wondered just how fast the guy was running!

Along that stretch the four inch long rubber tread on my run prosthesis became nearly completely unglued and was flapping underfoot, not tripping me but on every step it would drag across the pavement, and occasionally I’d step on it as it folded underneath, leaving me terribly frustrated. Beside the course I saw my prosthetist and Amy Winters, our Team A Steap Ahead manager, about a mile later. I barked out my issue hoping they might have an answer. A couple minutes later Amy pulled up next to me on her mountain bike, pulled a couple hair bands out of her ponytail and temporarily secured my tread. That only took 15-20 seconds and I was right back in the hunt. (I acknowledge that this would be considered “outside assistance,” reason for disqualification under USA Triathlon rules, I believe. If anyone reports me, so be it.)

Some of you might recall that in T2 of the last triathlon I raced, I forgot to switch my bike liner for a fresh run liner and PR’d the latter discipline. This gave me all the reason I needed to purposefully forgo the liner change in pursuit of J.P. Whether or not replacing it would have made a difference I really don’t know, but the leg got a bit lose and Stumpy began to moan about Mile 3, and I didn’t stop until Mile 4 for a reboot. Nice big pink open blister looked up at me. With the liner and leg back on securely I got back at it. By Mile 5 I had to stop momentarily for a leg dangle as both the blister and gimp-side calf cramp called for it. I hadn’t seen J.P. in a couple of the longer stretches I could see in Central Park and all but bowed out of the quest for first. Just then Rivaldo passed me, which gave me all the motivation I needed to tough out that last mile as fast as I could.

My 46:27 run (again, I’ve gone both faster and slower here…and I was expecting something faster) was almost two minutes slower than J.P. and I crossed the line 20 seconds ahead of Rivaldo.

The close battle with my former nemesis—seems I’ve got a new one now—was very much expected. Getting schooled by J.P. was a little bit of a surprise, but not totally. The man’s been strong since he entered the scene several years ago and has been getting faster every race. And every ear I hear “J.P.’s fit and looking fast this year.” I believe we last raced in 2007 when I got him by a 13 minutes.

So, all due respect Champ, but it wasn’t you I was worried about. I can honestly say that I’m impressed as hell by your commitment and dedication to training—with a real job and three kids—with the goal of taking that top spot. Furthermore, I appreciate the fire you’ve stoked not only under me but also my wife who has just granted me two hours of training each day to catch you at Worlds on September 12!

PS - I’d like to thank Affinia Hotels for providing phenomenal accomodations for my family over the weekend.

Just a little twist to cap off a great week. Three states, two speeches and one golf game later, I’m flying home, currently somewhere over Jersey, I’m guessing.

It began on Monday with a trip to Tulsa to do my thing Tuesday morning in front of the attendees of the Oklahoma Society of Association Executives Annual Convention. Went well, no tomatoes, eggs or the like.

Home late Tuesday night, got to bed around midnight. At 5:30am Sharon woke me up to say good-bye, off to work a 24-hour shift. I fell back asleep. At six-thirty Luke and Jack woke me up with, “Daddy, get me outta bed!” That’s a direct quote from Jack. Luke was just, “Daddyyyyy!”  Love it. Love it. Love it.

Spent the majority of my day feeding, changing, reading to, etc, with a mid-day break to Doug Pond for Jack’s swim lesson and Luke’s fearless aqua antics. Throughout the day, when I got a chance, I took care of business and packed for my trip that night. 

Grandma came over to cover for the night since Sharon was on call ‘til Thursday morning. After putting the boys to bed, I departed for Connecticut at 9:30 for The Hartford’s Paralympic fundraiser golf outing the next day. My job Thursday morning was to say a few welcoming words to the wonderful employees of the company’s Group Benefit Division who willfully took a personal day to support our nation’s world-class challenged athletes. Then I was obliged to play golf. Good work if you can get it. I played OK—a few good shots, a few bad shots, typical.

Straight from the golf course to Hartford’s Bradley airport for a trip to Destin, FL via Atlanta and the Ft Walton Beach airport. I scored a earlier standby flight for the latter leg and was in my bed at the fabulous Sandestin Hilton by 11pm. Ninety minutes ahead of schedule.

Up at 6:30, enjoying fabulous blackberry sauce-covered crepes by 7:15 and addressing the Mississippi Bar’s Young Lawyer Division’s Annual Conference by 8:30. That, too, went well, and like the Oklahoma gig, the audience was kind to buy nearly all the books I’d shipped in ahead of time and a couple of CDs to boot.

Never made it outside to enjoy the white sandy beaches. Never made it outside for anything until I got back into a cab at 11:15 for a trip back to the Ft Walton Beach airport. That’s when the cab broke down. As mentioned, the flight, which I actually would have been on time for, was delayed 40 minutes. Back up cab was there in 15 minutes and my week continued to come together.

Life is good when you give it a chance.

This Middlebury, CT event was founded twenty-plus years ago and soon renamed in honor of local triathlete Pat Griskus who was the first leg amputee to complete both the Hawaiian Ironman and Boston Marathon. The motivation for me to drive a couple hours to the other side of Hartford was primarily to honor the man who bushwhacked the trail many of us have followed. I had done this race several years ago, while living in Colorado, so it was appropriate I get back to it before leaving Boston next month—to return to Colorado.

Goof #1: I forgot to get body marked! I’ve gone on record stating that one of my favorite aspects of triathlon is getting my race number and age written in black marker on my arms and legs by the sports most valuable participants, the volunteers. These volunteers are typically right next to the transition area. Yesterday they were over by registration and I just plain didn’t see them and spaced it. Nothing that was gonna kill my race, just an embarrassment.

Goof #2: I failed to properly prepare my bike and in grinding up the first of several steep hills in the granny gear, my chain continued to “dance” around the cog, requiring me to pull back on the shifter and keep pressure on it to hold it in place.  This didn’t totally wreck my ride, but made things a little less efficient and rendered getting up out of the saddle impossible, which would have come in handy on a few occasions. The problem was an improperly adjusted rear derailleur cable that was quite easily fixed after the race.

Goof #3: The big one. I was fortunate to be fairly close to the front where there weren’t many other riders. I came upon a four-way intersection with a cop waving traffic to pass by him. Keyword here: traffic. I wasn’t traffic, I was a racer. I figured this out about a half mile and two steep climbs later. The moment I passed the intersection I pondered what happened to the cyclists I could previously see in the distance, thinking they must have crested that hill in front of me quicker than expected. I looked behind and saw two guys following me and kept in mind that that cop just looked me in the eyes and waved me through. At the top of the second hill I slowed up to ask one of my followers what he thought. He shrugged and kept hammering. I turned around and headed back whence I came. I saw no one headed in my direction and concluded that I just went off course for the first time in my triathlon life.

Back at the intersection I stopped and asked the cop why he waved me through. He said, “I didn’t wave you through, I’m in charge of traffic, she’s in charge of racers,” pointing to a volunteer on the far corner. Apparently this volunteer wasn’t aware that not all of us had the course committed to memory.

For the first five miles of the 10-mile ride, I thought about the good race I was experiencing; the strong swim, the developing ride…then all shot to hell. I lost some psychological momentum with the latest goof and managed to get some of it back over the the last couple miles of the bike. I entered transition feeling little pressure to perform; a sprint race leaves little room for a four-plus minute error. Once the bike was racked, I noted how quickly I was out onto the run…

…Goof #4. For the first time ever, again, I completely forgot to reboot with a fresh liner for the run! Yet, my suspension felt alright and I figured I could at least run for a spell before I’d be forced to pull over and fix it. I just kept running… and running… and running. Next thing you know I’m picking off lots of competitors, the leg’s feeling fine and I’m not cramping in the gut like I always do early in the run. The 20:03 5k run was the 29nd best of some 450 athletes and 5th of 39 in the 40-44s. Might think about goofing up like that more often.

And all this after limping up to the line with some funky tender spot on Stumpy that had my questioning my ability to run pain free. Over the course of 1 hour 13 minutes yesterday, when it mattered, I had no issues. Things got worse last night, I was stuck on crutches and tough rolling over in bed when Stumpy brushed the sheets. This morning I went to the doc and had my the infection lanced and drained. A couple hours later and I’m back in the prosthesis en route the beach for Jack’s swim lessons!  I haven’t a thing to complain about…