Not much to say
I haven’t posted in awhile because I haven’t been able to think of anything interesting to write. Several weeks ago I gave up after after three paragraphs, bored with the words on the screen.
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.
Make The Call
“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…
197 Miles Later
The 2010 Hood to Coast is in the books and Team Amazing Awaits proudly left the beach—some limping, some yawning, most doing both—knowing they set a new team record! 27 hours, 46 minutes, finishing 374th overall.
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.
