Another Perfect Weekend

This past Sunday the New York City Triathlon hosted the the Paratriathlon national championships for the seventh consecutive year. I, too, was there for a seventh go at it. As one my expect, everything over the weekend went perfectly and life was enriched because of it.

The notables started, as they often do, at the airport on the way out of Denver. I took advantage of the technology Expedia offered and downloaded my itinerary—which my prosthetics provider A Step Ahead of Hicksville, NY provided me—directly to my computer’s calendar. This made it so easy to keep track of my departure time and, hence, show up with plenty of time to spare. Nevertheless, I missed yet another flight.

Let it be a lesson to you all that despite a departure from the Mountain time zone, the downloaded version of your itinerary could be on Eastern time.

The nice lady behind the counter at check-in actually remembered me from my flight to South Africa a couple of months back. She kindly checked, free of charge, my bike and bag a healthy 14 hours before my newly scheduled 1:00AM flight, making it a breeze to head back home and cook up a delicious kale soup to enjoy with my family and neighbors in our driveway—the kids played on bikes and scooters while the day’s light dwindled. After dinner and toddler clean-up, I snuck in an hour of shut-eye before heading back to DIA for the red-eye.

Airline sleep is typically difficult to come-by so I did something completely novel for me: I brought my own pillow! And it worked perfectly. I had a whole row to myself, laid my head upon my personal bedding and slept so well they had to wake me up on the tarmac in NYC after everyone had already deplaned. Perfect.

It was then 6:30AM EST and the nice people at Delta ensured me that despite my luggage’s alternate route to Minneapolis, it would be in by 2pm and delivered to my hotel by 6pm. This would make my trip into the city so much smoother without having to lug that bike with me. Perfect.

At 6pm the nice lady at Delta’s baggage counter informed me that my stuff had been noted as “Departed,” but just to make sure she’d check it’s progress toward Manhattan. “Looks like it never left the deck. It’ll got out on the 8pm delivery, you’ll have it by 9.”  The mandatory bike check-in would close at 9PM. Wow. How perfect.

At 9PM, with the delivery remaining elusive, Delta assured my things would be at the hotel by the wee hours.

I slept well, perhaps as good as I’ve ever slept before a race, knowing that my machine would be with me when I awoke.

The wake-up call came at 4AM and I immediately proclaimed, as I’ve done many time before, “Rrrrrace Dayyyyyy!” I headed right downstairs to put my bike together so as to arrive at the race start no later than 5AM. But it wasn’t there…

I pulled out my iPhone to make a few calls, eager to come up a bike somehow. The first couple calls provided nothing; the third call was a winner: Justin Modell, a local triathlete and the organizer of the paratriathlon division, had a bike for me and, since he was already at the race, he made the call to his doorman to let me in. I cabbed it over, grabbed his bike and his right shoe and peddled my way to the race, arriving at 5:15AM, in the clothes I’d donned 36 hours prior.

(I would later learn that my bike and wetsuit arrived, in perfect timing, the moment I jumped in the water to start the race at 7:10AM, by a company aptly named, no joke, Perfect Delivery Service!)

Surprisingly, without the wetsuit, I swam one of my faster races there and exited under 17 minutes, ninety seconds ahead of the fastest one-legged triathlete out there: JP Theberge. That 90 seconds turned hard into a seven minute deficit. I had a tough time riding crunched up on a too-small road bike with my bike leg unable to clip in on the mismatched pedal/cleat combo, i.e., I was unable to pull up with the prosthesis or get out of the saddle—JP blazed by me about a third of the way through the ride.

Without my speed lace race shoe I was forced to sit and tie the lace of the race shoe I’d traveled in (probably doesn’t mean much to most of you) and stopped twice before exiting transition to stretch my aching crunched-up back, making for a very slow T2.

I knew I was at least seven to eight minutes off pace of JP when I saw him coming the other way from the 180 turnaround near the bike finish. So, with no hopes of winning, and with the thin skin from the recently-healed blister from the previous weekend’s race, I sucked it up and pre-emptively rebooted a few times on the run. This, I’m happy to say, resulted my first blister-free finish of seven there. More perfection.

(I must note that JP had a fantastic finish time of 2:19, edged only by the ageless and legendary One Arm Willie Stewart. Wingers Joel Rosinbum and Tommy Knapp also had great races and I wrapped up the top five. The top five on the women’s side were visually impaired Robin Caruso, below knee amp Meg Fisher, VI Yvonne Mosquera, wheel-bound Carly Waugh and in fifth was my very good friend and one of my worldwide favorite people, above-knee amp Sandy Dukat.)

So don’t let this photo fool you. I wasn’t stomping mad at Mile 1 as I ran straight at Erik Shaffer, my prosthetist and sponsor from A Step Ahead. I was, atypically, just having a little fun on the run.

The last little bit of perfection relative to the race transpired a couple days later: my customer service experience with both the NYC Taxi and Limousine Commission and Yellow Cab was so much more satisfying than that with Delta. After a series of phone calls placed by myself and the lovely Dr Sharon Wetherall, FedEx delivered my iPhone I had dropped in the back of the cab at JFK!

(Regarding the photo, that was kinda how I felt sitting on the tarmac for two hours, waiting to depart, when I discovered the missing phone…)

A well deserved beat-down and a love story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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