tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21821137048013933822024-02-28T15:44:42.199-08:00My Divorce/Ironman JourneyUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger190125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2182113704801393382.post-47390363891914590202023-10-01T20:43:00.001-07:002023-10-01T20:43:04.048-07:00Mountain Man Olympic Race Report<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqzBhOy9J6aHqmLHPuHr6rhEhRa1BohgmrdSLnNOOtZpIYoB_0jyRsxvUhJO1mUF2A5grSy_vG59RKcrVM6jV6z000jA9B77OethgwCtRh1FG5nUBxB0Z8hgT2nEBomw-mdl0p5LLwuKFjkG8GGUiyLr38zapNLB4pswMWIAssXtiASJhmQCpL1CzsP5Lu/s2606/20230821_102355.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2525" data-original-width="2606" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqzBhOy9J6aHqmLHPuHr6rhEhRa1BohgmrdSLnNOOtZpIYoB_0jyRsxvUhJO1mUF2A5grSy_vG59RKcrVM6jV6z000jA9B77OethgwCtRh1FG5nUBxB0Z8hgT2nEBomw-mdl0p5LLwuKFjkG8GGUiyLr38zapNLB4pswMWIAssXtiASJhmQCpL1CzsP5Lu/s320/20230821_102355.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>I always debate doing Mountain Man because it’s HARD. This would be my thirteenth one, so I knew better. Did I really want to swim in a lake at 7,000 feet? Climb the hills on the bike and the run? All with a lack of oxygen? But it the summer had been sizzling hot and miserable and the race would be a distraction in a cool place. Plus it would be a reason to train in the ninety degrees at dawn weather, which it seemed pointless otherwise.</p><p>So I swam in bath water temperature pools and lakes, sweated on the bike and run and came home to collapse in a dehydrated state of semi-heat exhaustion. This summer exceeded itself in pure crapitude. Even normal thriving trees and Saguaros were dying in the excessive heat.</p><p>I regularly do things like this to myself. Normal people think I am nuts. You rode or ran in this heat? It was uncomfortable, but bearable up to about 93 degrees, depending on the humidity.</p><p> The hassle of driving to Flagstaff did give me pause. The day before the race, I drove up on I-17, which was more clogged than usual on a summer weekend when Phoenicians are desperately trying to escape the heat. Parts of the road were under construction, which was a perpetual endeavor. The drive took thirty minutes more than normal.</p><p> I always hate pre-race, getting hyped up and wondering what will go wrong and what essential thing will be forgotten. I didn’t sleep very well. The hotel is close to a busy street and it was noisy. I used the fan feature to drown out the noise, but didn’t get much rest.</p><p>I got up at 3:50 race morning, packed up my stuff, forgetting a pillow and drove in the dark to the lake. It was warmer than usual, in the 60's. One year the car windows were fogged up, a baffling condition to clear up. Another time it was foggy, which delayed the swim.</p><p>The swim was always tricky for me. To get out of breath and hyperventilate, was difficult to impossible to recover from. Usually, my chest gets tight and I have to go slow and rest a lot to avoid panic. This seems to go on forever, but I always finish. </p><p>We had a rolling start and I seeded in the back. It started and ended at the ramp by transition. The swim went clockwise south instead of going north. The lake looked like it had more water in it than in the past, but also more weeds and was fairly calm. I didn’t panic, but found it hard not to stop and rest often, especially in the beginning. I swam by people freaking out and had to avoid a back-stroker most of the swim. It got better the second half, but not by much. I resorted to inhaling deeper to suck in more air, but it was hard to get enough oxygen. The water temperature was stated as 68 degrees and was 70 degrees by my watch. It wasn’t as warm as in years past, though not by much. It took 50 minutes, but seemed longer. It’s always a relief to get on land.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT73US85mML99NGXplciBaLH9EwEHfeNIXTnYJXahr5gYkA0H3UZSm68S4eDX-UHqbNZrUZNBXbHY4E99lPsf9ctKsCkf4vHmilAcJGaX8VnQAQi05x17uEvkS1BSvOOfpo76rM4ShbbBWAgQbBx0cXkyZSvWd_fwt6ZJq6KDoQQBxgmZANXwwKu3vD2bM/s225/Lake%20Mary.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="150" data-original-width="225" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT73US85mML99NGXplciBaLH9EwEHfeNIXTnYJXahr5gYkA0H3UZSm68S4eDX-UHqbNZrUZNBXbHY4E99lPsf9ctKsCkf4vHmilAcJGaX8VnQAQi05x17uEvkS1BSvOOfpo76rM4ShbbBWAgQbBx0cXkyZSvWd_fwt6ZJq6KDoQQBxgmZANXwwKu3vD2bM/s1600/Lake%20Mary.bmp" width="225" /></a></div><br /><div><div>My fifteen year old bike had been giving me problems two weeks before. The hub on my expensive wheel had given out and it wasn’t shifting well. The bike held up on the hills and the chain rubbed the gears sometimes, but was much better than before it was fixed. I didn’t hear any tire squeals from brake rubbing on the downhills. I admired the wildflowers on the side of the road, though they didn’t seem as lush as other years. Sunflowers, Indian Paint Brush, some pink flowers and scarlet penstemon dotted the roadside. Goldfinches sang in the fields of sunflowers and crows screeched in the pine trees. </div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPXibkylbdqCCasxgHQmz_kRMUFwAqyAbDHUbgphptxG0kCMfYC3sEtXDpfF2Z25GYuFDJCFd-dLcz3SA0kfHPQNQZU5dcMZURns9wpUFW4pk-2b94E8GxQ7V15aW2aX-goca6xJKsijRorQqVJ6sU-2UnDMMxoFZdAaMbWDuzVgmoO1svnbjxMzFKjz51/s2560/2016-05-07%2015.36.07.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="2560" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPXibkylbdqCCasxgHQmz_kRMUFwAqyAbDHUbgphptxG0kCMfYC3sEtXDpfF2Z25GYuFDJCFd-dLcz3SA0kfHPQNQZU5dcMZURns9wpUFW4pk-2b94E8GxQ7V15aW2aX-goca6xJKsijRorQqVJ6sU-2UnDMMxoFZdAaMbWDuzVgmoO1svnbjxMzFKjz51/s320/2016-05-07%2015.36.07.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><div>Off the bike, my legs felt clumsy and stiff. Running was painful, but I pushed myself anyway, though not fast. My body felt miserable, but my mental state was okay. The goal was to be faster than the last time here. I had given up beating myself up for not conquering this course with the hills and altitude. I argued with myself to move my feet faster. The cracks in the road didn’t trip me.</div><div><br /></div><div>Moving up the long, steep hill, white blossoms from the bushes growing on the hillside smelled fragrant. This was a unique experience on the run. Finally, the top of the hill and a half mile of dirt trail. The lake road at the bottom looked far away.</div><div><br /></div><div>Running downhill was a relief, except for feet snaring road cracks. Too bad it wasn’t all like that to the finish line. A mile to go, a truck was blocking the way. Thankfully it backed away. With a tank in back, it looked like a septic tank emptier. Almost foiled by a outhouse shit collector. Weird.</div><div><br /></div><div>The end didn’t come soon enough. Random people cheered, but not anyone that I knew. In the past, I would bemoan lack of support, but the finish line was all that I cared about. That and stopping the pain. I finished twenty minutes faster in total time than the last time in 2021.</div><div><br /></div><div>Since only three people in my age group showed up, I was third and got one of the tree stump awards. Of course we had to nag the awards announcer because he didn’t have the results yet. Not everyone can finish in two and half hours.</div><div><br /></div><div>As hard as this race was, it was a nice distraction. I always get sucked into the “can I really do this?” trap. Olympic races don’t seem like a given anymore. I used to worry about how fast I could go, and now lingering doubts in my abilities makes finishing is a goal in itself. It’s fun to find out that I CAN do it. </div></div><div><br /></div><p> </p>trijammerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15858283249053449598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2182113704801393382.post-73077727984842295052023-09-14T15:49:00.000-07:002023-09-14T15:49:51.146-07:00The Paw<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMVpWDOwLUXJYEf2cvlH1W2Oyf1fIWMPx70tVj2mqAuZBHHbjD40x6r1eppzh6jGzLbJmlHhKLLYZyBw69QJj-FNzTOjKbXgkjEiJM61a9Y-8PbPDxIjFeZGCBE3YzbzanYoc4jlohFZW7kGBvJfI7OjdkUOsFeAeO-exMLEpeAXifPW1_Cng1agt3dogK/s2560/20180704_145817.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="2560" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMVpWDOwLUXJYEf2cvlH1W2Oyf1fIWMPx70tVj2mqAuZBHHbjD40x6r1eppzh6jGzLbJmlHhKLLYZyBw69QJj-FNzTOjKbXgkjEiJM61a9Y-8PbPDxIjFeZGCBE3YzbzanYoc4jlohFZW7kGBvJfI7OjdkUOsFeAeO-exMLEpeAXifPW1_Cng1agt3dogK/s320/20180704_145817.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> She steps into my life.<p></p><p>A feline disruption.</p><p>Demanding affection, food and a lap.</p><p>She complains, and wants attention.</p><p>Her paws destroys furniture, claws ripping cloth;</p><p>Feet stepping on the table, the desk, fresh laundry, my lap.</p><p>She crawls into my lap and purrs.</p><p>Soft brown and beige fur; with big blue eyes a mystery of emotion.</p><p>A cat that’s both aggravating and ingratiating.</p><p>Until she isn’t.</p><p>Weak, pain-filled legs can’t jump up onto the table, the desk or my lap.</p><p>Walks along the wall, not knowing where to go. Her eyes don’t see.</p><p>She can’t find her food nor the litter box.</p><p>Leaves vomit, pee, poop on the floor.</p><p>Her spirit is gone; it’s time to go. I kiss her good-by.</p><p>Her absence leaves holes in my heart.</p><p>And an impression of her paw.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_srvGgtSm8gK4rEAChXhubvUfDzgj98oIXEoSV8INe_4B_UK7r-6EWX8Jc1l6duk_yCjDoL2m5ZI3Rrogx7CE8W-VR73uopLCQNLgt2aGnNL_kOM09cSE7w87qL6_6B3-KvTja1Sh9WIlh12p0xBhHYQVYcqQqRdZHB_jTtsxmB-cmlXQuOfpJrcJPEAB/s1693/20230620_145355.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1693" data-original-width="1373" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_srvGgtSm8gK4rEAChXhubvUfDzgj98oIXEoSV8INe_4B_UK7r-6EWX8Jc1l6duk_yCjDoL2m5ZI3Rrogx7CE8W-VR73uopLCQNLgt2aGnNL_kOM09cSE7w87qL6_6B3-KvTja1Sh9WIlh12p0xBhHYQVYcqQqRdZHB_jTtsxmB-cmlXQuOfpJrcJPEAB/s320/20230620_145355.jpg" width="260" /></a></div><br /><p>Cats are simultaneously adorable and annoying. They have big eyes and are soft, furry and cute. They sleep a lot and drape themselves over various surfaces and purr when they are happy. But it’s hard to know what they are thinking and what they want besides food and a soft lap. Their emotions are not readily discerned. A cat language translator needs to be invented. Are they bored, in pain or lonely? An owner is never sure about this mysterious creature.</p><p>My cat came into my life when my daughter, on one of her rare visits in 2016, insisted that we go to the animal pound, since I “needed” a cat. I don’t know why I agreed.My thought was to get an older cat or a cat that was not likely to be adopted. A kitten did not interest me because of the longer commitment and possible obnoxious behavior. A black cat looked promising, but it had behavioral problems. They brought out a tuxedo brown and white female siamese. She REALLY wanted to be adopted and was friendly, but she didn’t like other cats. We took her home. I kept her previous name, Mama Cat. Why she was named that is unknown, but it could have been her affectionate behavior. Most of the time she was just “cat”. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLZfUHoCbF52Fxw5gEW3oT-FyyXrwHKfy-AuiPunggL4o72qj3xwvdBsLJtwTzEVr17UHLL5W_4FhMLri9Pv2GoGFs9azRzDYl5gmmJsQyiUCwNr8e9jpWdJenFxbiL8A9oPl5Q7xNRGlk-YIoN4AbURPVN-5jTZyW-0Ug8_jXqZ4ipVWRw5Q15oE43fcG/s2560/2018-01-25%2011.26.06.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2560" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLZfUHoCbF52Fxw5gEW3oT-FyyXrwHKfy-AuiPunggL4o72qj3xwvdBsLJtwTzEVr17UHLL5W_4FhMLri9Pv2GoGFs9azRzDYl5gmmJsQyiUCwNr8e9jpWdJenFxbiL8A9oPl5Q7xNRGlk-YIoN4AbURPVN-5jTZyW-0Ug8_jXqZ4ipVWRw5Q15oE43fcG/s320/2018-01-25%2011.26.06.jpg" width="180" /></a></div><div><div>Any pet is a lot of work, especially when older. They rip up furniture and vomit on the floor. I thought that an older cat would be easier. Ha! She had thyroid cancer, peed like a horse and had arthritis, then kidney problems.</div><div><br /></div><div>Mama Cat never liked to play with things. She was more interested in being petted and snuggling. Previous cats I had owned weren’t overtly interested in affection. She DEMANDED it. This aspect of her personality was both gratifying and annoying. She never seemed to get enough. Being siamese, it was probably due to her breed.</div><div><br /></div><div>Mama Cat would always wait by the couch until I sat down and then jump in my lap. She was never a good jumper and could be let out in the back yard to lay in the sun on the patio. But she could still jump on the desk or in the chair during my zoom calls. In the last year of life, I had to pick her up because her legs weren’t strong enough to jump at all. Lacking any ability to do this was sad, not being able to make her wants known when the body was incapable of expressing them. </div></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis_oJd_2NGAtqplwYnKL5fqXBSSVny1HcfEZax8xDaLrQPM8zBRzhCJL9K-os1S9dT2Gf2DFKSYWMM-7FVGqwhHP0R3BPY2w4qCPgYAQFWXCLe7zTY0HuHkF2ORpkiXVxxxd4VyBafc2y238s5k7mNjXS50THwl_itYZg6Mf_MKnK2OrMZazzFJLXKickB/s2560/2016-06-23%2009.32.17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2560" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis_oJd_2NGAtqplwYnKL5fqXBSSVny1HcfEZax8xDaLrQPM8zBRzhCJL9K-os1S9dT2Gf2DFKSYWMM-7FVGqwhHP0R3BPY2w4qCPgYAQFWXCLe7zTY0HuHkF2ORpkiXVxxxd4VyBafc2y238s5k7mNjXS50THwl_itYZg6Mf_MKnK2OrMZazzFJLXKickB/w181-h320/2016-06-23%2009.32.17.jpg" title="It was hot that day." width="181" /></a></div><div><div>Mama Cat’s health when downhill when she was twenty. For a couple of years prior, she needed to go every week to the vet for hydration because her kidney function was marginal. She would complain after eating for an unknown reason. Her right eye became dilated and it was difficult to know if it was painful. A vet eye doctor said that she was okay, but a cat neurologist five months later thought that she was blind and probably had a brain tumor. This is when I especially longed to know how she felt, but she couldn’t tell me.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was difficult to know what to do about Mama Cat. She would walk in a daze along a wall, not knowing where to go. The litter box was unused and she peed and pooped on the floor and sometimes smeared it on herself. I had to put her food in front of food, because she couldn’t find it. Walks were a painful limp. </div></div><div><br /></div><div>After talking to the vet, I made the decision to end the suffering. It feels terrible to have to power to kill a pet, but I didn’t want her to have more pain if the tumor progressed. In the back of my mind, I dreaded finding her dead.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGVBYlf-vlNma4Mq8bmqCCSt7MurR02r0nha-ykVixIg3UQFEZiDBFLPmmgVEvUJAu3jY_BuTQXLSBbOimzQNW9ai9h9eOn1lzV2ZVK_sDEE66UhTZL0RKkoZJFOHDkMNKdcJ7tp2bkaBwV1CJEp2GbMYsAARd6MFOin7R3HrmkqXCvQAH-t28KvBHimZ5/s1607/2016-12-14%2023.25.56.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1607" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGVBYlf-vlNma4Mq8bmqCCSt7MurR02r0nha-ykVixIg3UQFEZiDBFLPmmgVEvUJAu3jY_BuTQXLSBbOimzQNW9ai9h9eOn1lzV2ZVK_sDEE66UhTZL0RKkoZJFOHDkMNKdcJ7tp2bkaBwV1CJEp2GbMYsAARd6MFOin7R3HrmkqXCvQAH-t28KvBHimZ5/w200-h179/2016-12-14%2023.25.56.jpg" width="200" /></a></div> The vet gave Mama Cat a sedative, then the drug that would kill her. It didn’t take long until she was gone. I gave the cat a parting hug and also hugged the vet. They took her away. I opted for cremation, but not to keep the ashes. I couldn’t imagine burying her in the garden. It was bad enough with the parakeets when they died.<div><br /></div><div>They made an impression of her path, a faint trace of her existence.</div><div><br /></div><div>With her gone, it was a relief and painful. I didn’t have to fed a cat, clean up her poop and pee or worry about her health. I didn’t have to take her to the vet every week for hydration. I could leave the house without worrying about feeding her when I got back. I could go anywhere for any length of time without having to arrange a sitter. </div><div><br /></div><div>But her absence was a emptiness, as if a little furry cat had a big presence. No purring lap sitter, no head nudges, no adorable sleeping poses, no blue eyes watching me. It was an un-needed and lonely feeling. Nothing was vying for my attention or wanting affection. The loss of a small creature leaves a big paw-shaped hole.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOKcR0P35szQlb7u0odWLtydWHQxVFqNeO7xV596DXXM0bcAFA1oXnlxj2hX8FjVIybGsVH0yMBRRz-PGrqmnTMeZlKtZV2MohYXMCk7blTgyjC0ZEvf_6UTWSVmqSe7XleWYnfJrT8bp_Q82NubdrqpgT05IxDC8ThKdHUQKVSyk4U7gmfUC9FC0xKPbu/s2560/20181231_193821.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2560" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOKcR0P35szQlb7u0odWLtydWHQxVFqNeO7xV596DXXM0bcAFA1oXnlxj2hX8FjVIybGsVH0yMBRRz-PGrqmnTMeZlKtZV2MohYXMCk7blTgyjC0ZEvf_6UTWSVmqSe7XleWYnfJrT8bp_Q82NubdrqpgT05IxDC8ThKdHUQKVSyk4U7gmfUC9FC0xKPbu/s320/20181231_193821.jpg" width="180" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicLcpCmxyk_0Qv2q6kaQfh0BRAI7ddlcFrRHibb44c5L_PLk2UQHIfP4PAe16Fxw1LK5ZhH2X3XcErFGTivnR7MH_-17UK-KcHcuIWqNQ6s5iFXgZ_6h6LcvCW0mS-Tr_ZRdIQ-Xh_JPKPtDKZQcMzJYQ_z446jRO-XCESGX43PGqU5OWrvs4kLTUzwq3s/s2560/2016-12-20%2020.02.17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="2560" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicLcpCmxyk_0Qv2q6kaQfh0BRAI7ddlcFrRHibb44c5L_PLk2UQHIfP4PAe16Fxw1LK5ZhH2X3XcErFGTivnR7MH_-17UK-KcHcuIWqNQ6s5iFXgZ_6h6LcvCW0mS-Tr_ZRdIQ-Xh_JPKPtDKZQcMzJYQ_z446jRO-XCESGX43PGqU5OWrvs4kLTUzwq3s/s320/2016-12-20%2020.02.17.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxgngq6v8RHol6hjaQh0LPjmKH7dXdejh8hhpZhCxvAnvR_ao4VFcJxtg11pVEVjH2_jD37N9AOiF8QeThyjbcnVtmuAxC63yOr-Bajf0UPz3qJDMGjFU9t_wD-DLwNoBqc5e9_Yi0JsVClNAwwbggZfPfT2eCHea61OoXRObnXnNufkGWqtd_H1tV5jdy/s1877/2016-08-26%2000.59.48.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1877" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxgngq6v8RHol6hjaQh0LPjmKH7dXdejh8hhpZhCxvAnvR_ao4VFcJxtg11pVEVjH2_jD37N9AOiF8QeThyjbcnVtmuAxC63yOr-Bajf0UPz3qJDMGjFU9t_wD-DLwNoBqc5e9_Yi0JsVClNAwwbggZfPfT2eCHea61OoXRObnXnNufkGWqtd_H1tV5jdy/s320/2016-08-26%2000.59.48.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuDX5l7841RhoEYoqDmLvOYjGTfrvLP_ntMToaPpdJHObApRBzMbAH8QEeUVf8ZOFEai0JQuU0WGFG6d8_HSFTitOtqPSuXRxyZcDofGv9rZRUL3NrO4SRmpUEyYptNva4Z2a2D3GEp8ovH9AvLLzpbT1s2CVEb88atdFR__SuWmJasYlQan3JOUsUY5ZU/s2560/20170702_152728.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="2560" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuDX5l7841RhoEYoqDmLvOYjGTfrvLP_ntMToaPpdJHObApRBzMbAH8QEeUVf8ZOFEai0JQuU0WGFG6d8_HSFTitOtqPSuXRxyZcDofGv9rZRUL3NrO4SRmpUEyYptNva4Z2a2D3GEp8ovH9AvLLzpbT1s2CVEb88atdFR__SuWmJasYlQan3JOUsUY5ZU/s320/20170702_152728.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p><div><br /></div>trijammerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15858283249053449598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2182113704801393382.post-44032595456483389162023-07-01T20:19:00.002-07:002023-07-01T20:19:14.574-07:00Grand Canyon Rim to River to Rim Hike<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeLH4lSl6HnNVrz-2GKmGOPTLQhWFZSgM6TMoViudhtUoR27toVKxan-6AMRM1RMKHsDdDuOoItu-CzGgI5Y03EKWb9XNOTMkzvBrENgJCG_A6Z1iDF0Hy9dGinQio9NOWLDJFFt5VoUSena1Y6p9u5eiPXvriZNzAfD4AH6YcTOq98Peo-uEXiwsCZ6Nh/s4000/20230609_074437.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeLH4lSl6HnNVrz-2GKmGOPTLQhWFZSgM6TMoViudhtUoR27toVKxan-6AMRM1RMKHsDdDuOoItu-CzGgI5Y03EKWb9XNOTMkzvBrENgJCG_A6Z1iDF0Hy9dGinQio9NOWLDJFFt5VoUSena1Y6p9u5eiPXvriZNzAfD4AH6YcTOq98Peo-uEXiwsCZ6Nh/s320/20230609_074437.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> The allure of the Grand Canyon is indescribable; a visual masterpiece that is always changing in the light. Some rock layers are millions of years old, in myriads of fantastical shapes. But hiking to the bottom is a serious undertaking in the rugged harsh climate. The price of admission to the wonderland is grueling physical stamina to climb in and out of it. Lack of preparation or training can be deadly. At the same time the vast expanse is magical. Going below the rims is an adventure, and the first step on South Kaibab trail to descend is both exhilarating and terrifying at the same time.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg49UGeY7-6T_94FUqtFthG4oJyubMOnFy5EnkMvCG9fi-3fDI3O4ZTjT5qBhtYD_8bWl-YjyRQkCczgUpbyy-kqp5j-5TEg8XjSf5fXTSjVpSUeCMVCz_orP3QoEPra3Tr2jWLJu5CyH241DSKT_ATxHLe2ZH2xki5uaSIaivnxysGv-McPJQaQCEWPiuY/s3722/20230609_045718.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2527" data-original-width="3722" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg49UGeY7-6T_94FUqtFthG4oJyubMOnFy5EnkMvCG9fi-3fDI3O4ZTjT5qBhtYD_8bWl-YjyRQkCczgUpbyy-kqp5j-5TEg8XjSf5fXTSjVpSUeCMVCz_orP3QoEPra3Tr2jWLJu5CyH241DSKT_ATxHLe2ZH2xki5uaSIaivnxysGv-McPJQaQCEWPiuY/s320/20230609_045718.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>We started down South Kaibab in the pre-dawn gloom at 4:30. I avoided looking at the dimly lit depths and shear drops offs that promised certain death if I fell, and kept my eyes down on the steep slope of the ground. The hazy sun was still under the horizon, glowing behind the rim.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhswAxZQ2nBqZGdVXgP84nT649cw3u7nAO5eDWqGIYlhf7CyAhZ_YmjpdqETd767Ay5tYdCocsJWZTp3xdYVQpnd8zI8-HVsQBUOQhBWySY7dDjJQrZByCE0y8OMRL8ph_fuYuLbDXHfOQKGDHXgNebwct0_nBfNe-byHfXeEc570wiuhCgiB4ov_GZFemA/s4000/20230609_050053.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhswAxZQ2nBqZGdVXgP84nT649cw3u7nAO5eDWqGIYlhf7CyAhZ_YmjpdqETd767Ay5tYdCocsJWZTp3xdYVQpnd8zI8-HVsQBUOQhBWySY7dDjJQrZByCE0y8OMRL8ph_fuYuLbDXHfOQKGDHXgNebwct0_nBfNe-byHfXeEc570wiuhCgiB4ov_GZFemA/s320/20230609_050053.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So many steps.<br /><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUwIsSIoHUcajbsWK-6jw3eP_v4Nqylcae7Jz0IJdVYMkdwpwa-4RT0E4ivoVsuaj1cxUiY-MmZAy5UZiYnVcW0396IpOBvUm6vVjzO8WLWcV8pIqULmuAI0o3fJs-crVeI-h49ivwx6oWkVjHi0-CqxYWXshUNpII1Q_COropAUMifUl0_2WOAwP7jY35/s3433/20230609_045749.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3433" data-original-width="2999" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUwIsSIoHUcajbsWK-6jw3eP_v4Nqylcae7Jz0IJdVYMkdwpwa-4RT0E4ivoVsuaj1cxUiY-MmZAy5UZiYnVcW0396IpOBvUm6vVjzO8WLWcV8pIqULmuAI0o3fJs-crVeI-h49ivwx6oWkVjHi0-CqxYWXshUNpII1Q_COropAUMifUl0_2WOAwP7jY35/s320/20230609_045749.jpg" width="280" /></a></div><br /><div><div>Going down was strenuous with the endless steps and my knees ached already. The rock walls were spectacular in the growing orange glow. A bunch of hikers gathered to see the sunrise at Oh Ah Point. We took pictures. I reluctantly posed by the sign because I hate pictures of myself and don’t smile if I can help it. Moving on, my group stuck around with me for the most point, though it was hard for me to keep up.</div></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie0l0vRYxTpiBWWUOb4J3x6ZzLVtaxILYEpyOYmu8w9etgDYjC6sj-ziZ4p6qW_spzIqvLytsQtGgzQzbZN67O8yqyx-Ixb5GX1E0tg3_5L3cBHqrztD359l_lufk0LOdnMEwJfLAyJOtvgEmjSThcKcx03oRRxGqyw7ohY3u0VFXyM8ci2mPiYcEuFLgh/s4000/20230609_045726.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie0l0vRYxTpiBWWUOb4J3x6ZzLVtaxILYEpyOYmu8w9etgDYjC6sj-ziZ4p6qW_spzIqvLytsQtGgzQzbZN67O8yqyx-Ixb5GX1E0tg3_5L3cBHqrztD359l_lufk0LOdnMEwJfLAyJOtvgEmjSThcKcx03oRRxGqyw7ohY3u0VFXyM8ci2mPiYcEuFLgh/s320/20230609_045726.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><div>We really had a lucky break with the weather. It was fifties at the start, with a nice cool breeze, and high clouds that kept the sun intensity lower. It could have been much worse. My biggest fear on this hike was getting overheated, especially in June. The bottom is known to be an inferno in the summer. Anxiety made me fill up on water almost every stop, though it wasn’t always necessary.</div><div><br /></div><div>At Tip Off Point, the formations were still orange in the low light with dramatic deep blue shadows, making them resemble temples. The first glimpse of the silver green river thousands of feet below was always amazing.</div></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT2f_9mIKccFF1G70o4he4SC1KIKn4zOTHOR7TflBR5tvlqGRWAyBNOijWmtaO5Gp23HbuOU_4DwMu_zYxpy1fbv052P9FZ2XGij9tpifFnc1P-Z2SdtIhOHYLhteqEzfO3JLUj-xLW1vm0TUL0s9SqrsZ6BQrsyMs-2WjA07GfbgJhx5K1UxNBkvfH2Cd/s4000/20230609_060756%20(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT2f_9mIKccFF1G70o4he4SC1KIKn4zOTHOR7TflBR5tvlqGRWAyBNOijWmtaO5Gp23HbuOU_4DwMu_zYxpy1fbv052P9FZ2XGij9tpifFnc1P-Z2SdtIhOHYLhteqEzfO3JLUj-xLW1vm0TUL0s9SqrsZ6BQrsyMs-2WjA07GfbgJhx5K1UxNBkvfH2Cd/s320/20230609_060756%20(2).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><div>We crossed the river and went on to Phantom Ranch. I got ice, a postcard to sent to my daughter and of course lemonade. My pack was heavy with snacks, so I didn’t buy food. I filled up with the ice and water and kept out a wary eye for the evil, obnoxious squirrels who never miss a chance to grab a snack from unsuspecting tourists. Sometimes they followed me along the trail. What a menace.</div><div><br /></div><div>We went back to Bright Angel Trail and followed the river in a sandy path for what seemed a long way until we started ascending. It was warmer and I was drinking more water, but still felt dehydrated. My system of using an insulated small bottle with a three liter bladder to refill it wasn’t efficient because I kept having to stop and pour water into the bottle. The bladder tube didn’t work at all. Next year, I will just get another three liter bladder.</div><div><br /></div><div>My group got ahead of me, so I hiked alone. The trail was a lovely riparian paradise of creeks, waterfalls and plants hanging out of the rocks. The Canyon was greener than last year from all the rain and snow it got this winter. Flowers were blooming and birds called. One sounded like it was whistling at me. The peace of flowing water is my happy place as long as I can cross them or walk on the side of them.</div><div><br /></div><div>But when the trail turned into a creek, requiring stepping on rocks to keep my feet dry, it elicited anxiety. This was one of those “where the hell am I, am I lost” moments. Am I doomed to wander around, getting nowhere? The watery pathway finally turned into something resembling a trail again. </div></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdEHOIxLonF-ArCcnxkobfpfxQBrm1NPH2d3sgxukGM7XescoeajzB0ZF4-Rho8j4bSzSyJREzG69aV5iIIdx7XJM1c1REpaIj2hvt5DowA0ala08rCZ-WLIZyXgUxlxLGH4saV-yHFHncojHAe3YTesHoXhVW4TF3o4rNL7FPe2hB8SeRq3Lo4FHGnHf-/s4000/20230609_104707%20(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdEHOIxLonF-ArCcnxkobfpfxQBrm1NPH2d3sgxukGM7XescoeajzB0ZF4-Rho8j4bSzSyJREzG69aV5iIIdx7XJM1c1REpaIj2hvt5DowA0ala08rCZ-WLIZyXgUxlxLGH4saV-yHFHncojHAe3YTesHoXhVW4TF3o4rNL7FPe2hB8SeRq3Lo4FHGnHf-/s320/20230609_104707%20(2).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><div>The rock formations were interesting, especially in my tired, mushy mental state. One undulating ridge had dark pancake batter layers. Some looked like faces. Whatever kind of rock it was, it was millions of years old.</div><div><br /></div><div>I headed for a shady spot to pour some more water into my bottle and tripped. I had avoided this calamity up until now. My knee was bloody and my ankle bone had banged hard into a rock. Hopefully, it wasn’t broken. I could still walk, but it was still a long way up. It could get worse and my feet hurt enough as it was. I cleaned up the wound, but couldn’t find a band-aid to put on the knee, so it just dripped blood.</div><div><br /></div><div>After enough time on these trails, encountering mules are inevitable. They leave their droppings and puddles of pee for hikers to step around, like a fecal obstacle course. A train of mules appeared up the hill with tourists riding them. A space off the trail was a good place to stand and they went by me. The leader called out “that rock up there is Elvis, the king. You never know. Stranger things have happened here.” It did look a little like Elvis, if you used your imagination.</div><div><br /></div><div>Finally I reached Havasupi Gardens. My group had actually waited for me, which was appreciated. They always got ahead of me, but it still helped to see them. Havasupi Gardens didn’t seem like much, but maybe there was more to it near the campgrounds. At this point, I just wanted to get back up to the rim. Four and a half miles to go, but it was the hardest portion.</div><div><br /></div><div>Farther on, I caught up to them again and we soaked our shirts, hats and neck things in the creek, It was refreshing.</div><div><br /></div><div>Alone again, the waterways were gone, with only the endless switchbacks. Now I realized why people hated this part of the trail. It was hell. It wasn’t North Kaibab hell, where my legs felt like any moment they would collapse and I stopped every five minutes, but my focus was waning. It was difficult to keep hydrated. A misstep and I fell on the ground. It was a soft fall with no injuries, but my body was telling me enough.</div><div><br /></div><div>The less serious hikers with flip-flops, purses and shopping bags appeared. A man asked me “how far to the river?” My answer made him turn around. A stone arch seemed to mark the end, but no, more trail. “Oh, come on!”</div><div><br /></div><div>Finally the end after ten and a half hours, in plenty of time for dinner. I sat down near the Bright Angel sign to rest. Getting out of that deep hole seemed a win. No heat exhaustion, no major injuries and I got out on my own power and had survived the ancient, unforgiving landscape.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ironically, the most painful part was climbing the manmade stairs to my room, which caused me to scream from the pain of severe leg cramps. This was my body’s revenge for the abuse all day. Pain isn’t fun, but overcoming it is. Being exhausted, stressed and feeling like crap isn’t something that I seek out, but it’s part of the adventure. It’s worth it in order to see new things, be in a different environment and get out of the bubble of ordinary life.</div><div><br /></div><div>Even if the Elvis rocks weren’t “loving me tender.”</div></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiadaVSt4nEMzMgOX4R5R4a81IJPqn8mWAIspq_pdYi3HHLSYBHa-NSAuSzY49pZ4CxK55CRI-jnbwT7EHyU9nmLQa6FsAyTRsifqilaxuZ8mvik1CI_KHOxF4H087uIDqjSkriVRf_036VWegeBwC7wbcnTAP3hD0-WvpGcfqCmuYwFhifKcOMCUWrYll4/s4000/20230608_163826.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiadaVSt4nEMzMgOX4R5R4a81IJPqn8mWAIspq_pdYi3HHLSYBHa-NSAuSzY49pZ4CxK55CRI-jnbwT7EHyU9nmLQa6FsAyTRsifqilaxuZ8mvik1CI_KHOxF4H087uIDqjSkriVRf_036VWegeBwC7wbcnTAP3hD0-WvpGcfqCmuYwFhifKcOMCUWrYll4/s320/20230608_163826.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>trijammerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15858283249053449598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2182113704801393382.post-28783167453804309112023-05-21T16:02:00.000-07:002023-05-21T16:02:38.562-07:00Cactusman 2023 Race Report<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhocNuWb_TjbOaaNCTNi4_HF2DveSL4vg_tn1sFPw7LnFbFTKf9Mlm78FNqQoaxQt3hXbC578SlqJBQT22ENVvFIhTLfK9a58FHvVsSN4nf7ei_R5Sszj4DPkdu1cvKOtk-dNGNOta-I2hOzKruZBKxx8rrNYht6ObA5UaxFrW_TgAv4FbO6kLlm6G0Iw/s2880/20230501_172850.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2880" data-original-width="2558" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhocNuWb_TjbOaaNCTNi4_HF2DveSL4vg_tn1sFPw7LnFbFTKf9Mlm78FNqQoaxQt3hXbC578SlqJBQT22ENVvFIhTLfK9a58FHvVsSN4nf7ei_R5Sszj4DPkdu1cvKOtk-dNGNOta-I2hOzKruZBKxx8rrNYht6ObA5UaxFrW_TgAv4FbO6kLlm6G0Iw/s320/20230501_172850.jpg" width="284" /></a></div><p></p><p>Every race, it’s the strangling anxiety of organizing all the swim, bike, run and nutrition crap, not sleeping well, going down the site at o' dark thirty and setting up all the stuff in transition only to waste time later. Being the usual basket case beforehand. I forgot to put on my required wristband and parked my bike in the totally wrong rack. Hopefully, no one noticed. I was tired as hell from the lack of sleep.</p><p>I opted for the sprint distance of 750 meter swim, 12 mile bike and 5k run. This time of year is hot and two laps of run and bike in the olympic course would be too tedious.</p><p>It was hot standing around in the sun in a full wetsuit waiting to start the swim in Tempe Town Lake. Rumors were that the water would be colder, gauging from the 60's in the lakes, but it was above seventy degrees. Regular people are always horrified that I swim here, like it’s a cesspool of bacteria, scum and fearsome fish. I have never encountered live fish, but the birds that hang around manage to find them. Twenty-one years of swimming in this lovely lake has given me immunity from whatever is floating in it be it algae, wood bits, dead fish or even bodies.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJcZlMgtW0z1be4xqNILy-K1R47W0qRc9WjPaKSWu4vtWqKsrMPtdto0iN_IKVG57t6xle57lhz1hPMYwgg9vnOyVZu57GFJydC8yaGILEdDUL_tCL5S4J75mYneaXp7WNdc9v2e9iKjMWgscE4H3VVpP7MxcEbwMXofDeTL0_efRaAg0EHkoc82kl-g/s2560/20160507_153739.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="2560" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJcZlMgtW0z1be4xqNILy-K1R47W0qRc9WjPaKSWu4vtWqKsrMPtdto0iN_IKVG57t6xle57lhz1hPMYwgg9vnOyVZu57GFJydC8yaGILEdDUL_tCL5S4J75mYneaXp7WNdc9v2e9iKjMWgscE4H3VVpP7MxcEbwMXofDeTL0_efRaAg0EHkoc82kl-g/s320/20160507_153739.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div>My wave started and swam straight into the sun. My goggles fogged up, making it hard to see where to go. Over the years I have mostly avoided feeling panic, unless people swim over me, the waves are huge or if the temperature is very cold. Meandering back-strokers and people stopping to see where the hell they were added obstacles to avoid. I almost swam past the first turn buoy. </div><div><br /></div><div>The water surface churned with all the swimmers and and maybe some current generated by the flow over the dam. Swimming straight was hard and not relaxing. despite my two prior open water swims in colder water. A fishing line caught on my arm and some floating debris bumped my face. They buoys marking the turns seemed inexplicably angled. At least not too many people ran into or over me. It’s always a relief to get out of the lake. Total yardage was 1039, 200 more than it was supposed to be. Maybe the distance was mismarked or it was me, but it happened every year.</div><div><br /></div><div><div>I ran into transition, struggled out of my wetsuit, put the bike equipment on and started the ride. Most people whizzed by me, but once in a while I got to pass someone slower. The bike leg was a little better than last year, with a sizzling 15.2 mph for 12.3 miles. For the past couple of years, I have felt limited in riding hard, but this time my legs felt like they had just a little more power. It wasn’t to the point of pain, like in the past, but I had no motivation to visit that zone. </div><div><br /></div><div>It was getting warm, but not too bad, considering the blazing heat bowl that the area usually becomes. I enjoyed the novelty of riding hard without worrying if a car is going to kill me. Ever the birder, I noticed a Peregrine Falcon suddenly turn to avoid us.</div></div><div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg-hWAfSAHtEEHEjE6Yj7t0WSbd0-jOCiUnIU5r0H4mWcUGgx6q0V8oEr4Y31qYzXiIYaH6__40PmmetS3-L2BJW6dV0lO9okldMB4suya-uADiLn-AyvnY0YA7hmCwWCuTUUUhY1TU_v9WVb_ikBIODZiin_MMgbvVsAJ3JGz5xnib8RFXw6_cauHSaA" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg-hWAfSAHtEEHEjE6Yj7t0WSbd0-jOCiUnIU5r0H4mWcUGgx6q0V8oEr4Y31qYzXiIYaH6__40PmmetS3-L2BJW6dV0lO9okldMB4suya-uADiLn-AyvnY0YA7hmCwWCuTUUUhY1TU_v9WVb_ikBIODZiin_MMgbvVsAJ3JGz5xnib8RFXw6_cauHSaA=w200-h150" width="200" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Picture Joshua Stacy</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Miraculously, my legs actually felt decent beginning the run. Usually, the bike turns my legs leaden. The Salt River west of the dam looked like a real river, instead of creek, with all the water flowing through. Really remarkable. I ran hard, but as much as I tried, couldn’t get out of the 11 minute/mile mark. Former speed still eludes me. Total time was 36:55 for 3.29. </div><div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJDY2RosHoAUrB1KeyZRRRFt5SC9O01DZiZ0HkD8UE4LV19S_VXeu9wFWZb82EEfcnWAOcJwxWDQg5JQDhDGliRtU-jr23ZgpuMNPE-ZiHM5CQW3LOrR4i30M5cFe7K8aHkQGD7FA2smbkrRBj0H593VawYfC6AQ9ACg0AkcuB-9oCqdK2_PN18WvH5w/s180/soma.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="135" data-original-width="180" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJDY2RosHoAUrB1KeyZRRRFt5SC9O01DZiZ0HkD8UE4LV19S_VXeu9wFWZb82EEfcnWAOcJwxWDQg5JQDhDGliRtU-jr23ZgpuMNPE-ZiHM5CQW3LOrR4i30M5cFe7K8aHkQGD7FA2smbkrRBj0H593VawYfC6AQ9ACg0AkcuB-9oCqdK2_PN18WvH5w/w320-h240/soma.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Same site, different race.<br /><br /><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>Total overall time was 2:06:33. Compared to everyone else, it’s back of the pack, especially in the swim, but I have long ceased caring about that. Whether from age or health problems, loss of speed is difficult to accept, but at least my body can still do some semblance of “racing.” Mentally, I just am not as motivated to kill myself to compete. It’s great to still be able to push physical limits, but my energy has dwindled. The resulting bone deep fatigue from exhausting myself isn’t worth it. Or maybe it’s old hat because this was my 85th triathlon. Reasons for subjecting myself to the torture have evolved. Despite the insanity, I will probably still get up at o’dark thirty as long as the body is able.<div><br /></div> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><p> </p>trijammerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15858283249053449598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2182113704801393382.post-74944580977898417282023-04-17T17:30:00.000-07:002023-04-17T17:30:04.101-07:00Fifteen Mile Trail Run or What Was I Thinking?<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeGHHzmmgeOaIJioL6TUh0DjbZRzesWbtCiWyqNpvavD4BUH7zV4Fyc_CqcLYUKFVYRPfDcMyEZkg6949QGWJPcPGz0I9lY2aWXkYMGB_dDZGQiQl9w7kILPTtDqL6UjmBfIIIBqcSd7VtbhJUe5ruzADsM4Hc8S7JgtvptIVz50WXnyLZm3XZ0DkhCw/s4000/20230211_110919.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeGHHzmmgeOaIJioL6TUh0DjbZRzesWbtCiWyqNpvavD4BUH7zV4Fyc_CqcLYUKFVYRPfDcMyEZkg6949QGWJPcPGz0I9lY2aWXkYMGB_dDZGQiQl9w7kILPTtDqL6UjmBfIIIBqcSd7VtbhJUe5ruzADsM4Hc8S7JgtvptIVz50WXnyLZm3XZ0DkhCw/s320/20230211_110919.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p> I had serious doubts about doing a fifteen mile trail race. I like to push myself physically, but what is that limit anymore? It used to be easier to assume that I had the stamina and ability to do just about anything. Now, I don’t know. My energy level could range from functional to dead tired with no consistency. Would I injure myself by spacing out, resulting in a fall that would render my knee into a bloody pulp? Get exhausted and walk the whole way? </p><p>At least I knew what the course was like, having ridden it by mountain bike many times. It had some nasty rock strewn sections. Once to the seven mile point, it got easier and downhill. Still it was a long way. My goal was simply to finish in one piece.</p><p>At the start, everyone took off, leaving me mostly alone. This is a common event for me. I figured that I would catch some of them later. My arm and knee still hurt from a bad fall the week before, so I started slow </p><p>After two miles was where all the rocks started. This was a tough part and went uphill. One time I fell lightly on my hands. Most of the time my toe would hit a rock with no loss of balance. I kept up with an older man, but passed him eventually. It was slow going. I wasn’t worried about time, just completion of the distance.</p><p>The older man picked his way carefully among the rocks. Maybe this was how he avoided injury. Is frequent tripping an old person thing? At one point, I saw that he took a wrong turn and yelled at him. It was my good deed for the day. I lost him and didn’t see him after that.</p><p>Occasionally, I could look at the desert vistas instead of staring at the ground hazards. Four Peaks mountains still had snow in the crevices. The park stretched on into the horizon. Trail running is certainly more scenic that the boring streets of road racing. Saguaros beat shopping malls anytime.</p><p>My gurgling insides finally forced me to stop and find a bush. Luckily, no one was around. This is an advantage to trail running–being able to use a bush rather than carrying a load around. It was a long way to a restroom. I cursed inwardly my colon, which wouldn’t behave itself.</p><p>Running this route verses mountain biking was definitely different . The distances that would by pass quickly with a bike stretched out with running. I can coast on a mountain bike. I can climb rocks without falling. It seemed like I was going nowhere slowly and sometimes the anxiety of wondering where the hell I was and if I was lost took over. I had done this trail many times on a bike, but it was more desolate and vulnerable on foot. I overtook people sometimes and wondered why the hell would they be lagging back there with me.</p><p>I knew that the endpoint of the climbing was the shelter with the skeleton dressed in a serape, but I thought I was lost in the endless twists and turns of a trail that went nowhere. I was happy to see my boney friend. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzW6R7YhV1j1gSolxWOf3i5LvK7FTFzE5T7USpSNC9iXR8LFDEy99vmUSSZe8K-IyoeH4n2fY7NV_0DC7GZCaKWbiC-tAFIAY8ZJpbGusz3XJrucoYyIbPh2u0E3H4mCdvtuZNDJFm5qIVd_0adRKY1kGiT5al9EvI3-2DqccO5h0OcVgE3vDGzp7yIQ/s1406/McDowell%20Park.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1406" data-original-width="1133" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzW6R7YhV1j1gSolxWOf3i5LvK7FTFzE5T7USpSNC9iXR8LFDEy99vmUSSZe8K-IyoeH4n2fY7NV_0DC7GZCaKWbiC-tAFIAY8ZJpbGusz3XJrucoYyIbPh2u0E3H4mCdvtuZNDJFm5qIVd_0adRKY1kGiT5al9EvI3-2DqccO5h0OcVgE3vDGzp7yIQ/s320/McDowell%20Park.jpg" width="258" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My friend with a different costume.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>The next aid station had coke! Coke has saved me on long endurance events when my energy was flagging. I drank some and continued. My slogging pace picked up. I think that a 50k runner lapped me because he was moving much faster . I was on the downside slope, with some rough, rocky patches that were not as bad as the first stretch. I shuddered to think what negotiated that when I was tired would be like. The miles seemed longer and longer.</p><p>I passed another runner who was walking fast. Being polite or annoyed, she let me pass. I moved faster. </p><p>I crossed the park road, hoping that it wouldn’t be much longer, but it was. Would this trail ever end? Four miles to go and it was easier to run. The ground was smooth and the coke had kicked in. Where did this energy come from? Too bad it didn’t come sooner. The trail twisted and turned and I hoped to see some evidence of the parking lot, but nothing appeared. Then the restroom structure loomed in the distance. I kept running hard just to get the damn race over with. I was under my modest goal of 3:45.</p><p>Finally, the race ended at the humble finish line. Total time was 3:41. The skin of my knees and hands was still intact and I had mostly stayed upright.</p><p>This was a really low key race, so no medals, announcers or timing system, except someone writing the time on paper. This didn’t matter to me, but I wondered what was the point of running trail for fifteen miles. Running verses biking the trail was one of the draws to see the difference. I had only run a tougher half marathon trail in Page, but two miles more wasn’t that significant. Maybe it was to prove to myself that I could do a long run after a pandemic, cancer treatment and being older. I hadn’t even done a road half marathon since 2019.</p><p>We like to think that we are in control of our destiny. Doing crazy things gives me the illusion that I can defy age, expectations and physical limitations. If I can run fifteen miles, maybe that will hold off infirmity, fat and appease the joints that hate me. No one expects people my age to be doing such activity, but why should years dictate the end? I won’t live forever, or may even die next year, so why not do it now when I am able?</p><p>Or maybe it was just to feel just a bit like my old normal self again, rather than a depressed, achy, tired cancer survivor. I didn’t get my usual race high, but still could claim victory.</p><div><br /></div>trijammerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15858283249053449598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2182113704801393382.post-29739977857727535252022-07-30T16:21:00.000-07:002022-07-30T16:21:14.728-07:00Grand Canyon Rim to Rim<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9jK8fWcTduOk7rvCHMO_pFCdpOdRUTt6-aa42uehVKOkoMcT2l2KT86-Q6SrigrcVbhoDcBNJj8-H7MjGfF2lmmLNcQtMh2iVoRsg_XE6ugKue-dgratW2RzN8zXQKWavnXRXmCZ5nkrtTVPOMjwBkk1Ls5o8rxInEYOUufIX9jnCrvLWZ2DkFQaItA/s4000/20220529_075527.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9jK8fWcTduOk7rvCHMO_pFCdpOdRUTt6-aa42uehVKOkoMcT2l2KT86-Q6SrigrcVbhoDcBNJj8-H7MjGfF2lmmLNcQtMh2iVoRsg_XE6ugKue-dgratW2RzN8zXQKWavnXRXmCZ5nkrtTVPOMjwBkk1Ls5o8rxInEYOUufIX9jnCrvLWZ2DkFQaItA/s320/20220529_075527.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>Going down to the bottom of the Grand Canyon had long been a goal of mine. A mixture of curiosity, the exceptional scenery and a lack of common sense enticed me to trod the rugged depths. It’s one of those trips that sounds great in theory, but the reality involves some serious craziness. The hike is a strenuous long way down and up in a day in an unforgiving climate. It would be badass to do at my age, though and it’s fun to test myself physically, otherwise known as suffering. </p><p>This goal had always been thwarted by circumstances. My ex went down with his brothers, but I had to watch our young child. The car really stunk when they got out after sweating and camping for days. Another trip, the person backed out. A prospective group never had room. A tour was expensive and camping was involved, which is a nonstarter. The logistics of going by myself was difficult and hiking alone wasn’t appealing. Then came cancer and the pandemic. My strength to hike to the river, let alone rim to rim, was doubtful due to health issues. The goal seemed out of reach. After all this disappointment, the time was finally right.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj2YubTC1HAZ8Dm5HlVWGApDyzb_nbbznFceiv253McnxgNvxek2uvNv6awZFtX_N8QbYx57yuhfA3PcIt_T-3sLD_nYRLF1gNvpFZuKDLb_7wgw_aDMBitBN---DISmlma3NYKnW3XsRnO_GXdZMjOwpCABNQN0IrG1a48Yq6GjB3GG6F8T-uTkxU2g/s3872/DSC_0086.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2592" data-original-width="3872" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj2YubTC1HAZ8Dm5HlVWGApDyzb_nbbznFceiv253McnxgNvxek2uvNv6awZFtX_N8QbYx57yuhfA3PcIt_T-3sLD_nYRLF1gNvpFZuKDLb_7wgw_aDMBitBN---DISmlma3NYKnW3XsRnO_GXdZMjOwpCABNQN0IrG1a48Yq6GjB3GG6F8T-uTkxU2g/s320/DSC_0086.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p>Looking down into the abyss on the south rim the evening before, the coming venture was daunting. The ancient rock faces and formations in the fading light were striking, but harsh. The vast terrain looked merciless. I had been on both rims before, and it was pretty to look at and not threatening. It’s one thing to enjoy the scenery on the surface; another to subject myself to the climate, ruggedness and perils of the interior. Be unprepared for heat, dehydration or exhaustion and the consequences were dire. I was scared, but still compelled to hike it.</p><div><div>Walking down should have been the easier part, but the thousands of steps put a strain on my knees. Poles alleviated the effort, but my legs got really tired anyway. My lower right leg developed a persistent stabbing pain. Traversing by myself was isolating in the empty vastness of the landscape. By mile five, even finishing seemed doubtful. Step wrong and my shaky legs collapsed. I fell once and skinned my knee, which dripped blood. This prompted passers-by to ask if I was okay. Past experience told me to block out how far it was and to just keep going, even when it seemed impossible. Mental focus trumps physical pain. But despair lurked on the edges of my thoughts. Finally the trail smoothed out on the plateau.</div><div><br /></div><div>A line of horses passed me twice, pissing and pooping on the trail, so I stepped carefully. These riders don’t know what they are missing. I went through the tunnel, got to Indian Gardens and reloaded on water and wet myself down at the water stop. People say to soak yourself in the stream but lack of time and a norovirus had been going around made it seem risky. Being very tired by this point, I walked in a zombie state to Phantom Ranch and got the overpriced lemonade and sat down with a sigh of relief to write a postcard to send to my daughter. The $5 lemonade perked up me up again. I bought ice and put it in my water containers. Ice was my savior, since warm water is not thirst quenching.</div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_AgJfdWpGM26DwGHdJlUTamKPqNIfToJN5cn_WR_JFV0kmpWm-8AV9rzRHhLoEvTURbOd_oRYbJxtDQhUqYDxL5_a_fqDXUXDG6Apqqzyv9qOOd-VR-wjFqLeQxermvWKW24vh8TN9sVMJw3IrvuOBhSeuJKdjcYUJjU9eTdak4OGz9X_OPjlTgUNVQ/s1286/20220529_103946%20(2)_Moment.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1021" data-original-width="1286" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_AgJfdWpGM26DwGHdJlUTamKPqNIfToJN5cn_WR_JFV0kmpWm-8AV9rzRHhLoEvTURbOd_oRYbJxtDQhUqYDxL5_a_fqDXUXDG6Apqqzyv9qOOd-VR-wjFqLeQxermvWKW24vh8TN9sVMJw3IrvuOBhSeuJKdjcYUJjU9eTdak4OGz9X_OPjlTgUNVQ/w320-h254/20220529_103946%20(2)_Moment.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The "Box"</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_AgJfdWpGM26DwGHdJlUTamKPqNIfToJN5cn_WR_JFV0kmpWm-8AV9rzRHhLoEvTURbOd_oRYbJxtDQhUqYDxL5_a_fqDXUXDG6Apqqzyv9qOOd-VR-wjFqLeQxermvWKW24vh8TN9sVMJw3IrvuOBhSeuJKdjcYUJjU9eTdak4OGz9X_OPjlTgUNVQ/s1286/20220529_103946%20(2)_Moment.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="text-align: left;">T</span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The riparian areas in the “box” of rock walls by Bright Angel Creek were lovely and soul soothing. Birds sang in the bushes and flowers dotted the banks. Brooks are my happy place; a zen place of peace. An interesting snake slithered by and two deer appeared in the brush. The shade provided relief against the heat of the day. Sometimes a breeze kicked up and dried my sweat. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxVnoRqhUNSMNXHrl4uhzl9L1-8VAsFClFfYu2yiTQpEoju_5qnVCaKLNtLFp1G5lDqlcW5bveOD8qQtmwzwaLNYZpOL-48202VqCMcy2yfwK2CZlT7cogQyuMEOzwVORzRfcxZBFKyrYvziuVHa1T8jZBSNAij99i4CBC2DwWL6hAnhs0Ga0IhoOTDQ/s1606/20220529_104451_Moment%20(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="751" data-original-width="1606" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxVnoRqhUNSMNXHrl4uhzl9L1-8VAsFClFfYu2yiTQpEoju_5qnVCaKLNtLFp1G5lDqlcW5bveOD8qQtmwzwaLNYZpOL-48202VqCMcy2yfwK2CZlT7cogQyuMEOzwVORzRfcxZBFKyrYvziuVHa1T8jZBSNAij99i4CBC2DwWL6hAnhs0Ga0IhoOTDQ/s320/20220529_104451_Moment%20(2).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div></div><div>Many people must have passed through here in various states of physical exhaustion. The rocks are 500 million years old, so they had seen a lot of souls. The rims are forests, the bottom is desert and two climate zones down and the reverse going back up. Basically 4000 feet down and 5000 up from South Kaibab to North Kaibab, so it was a wide temperature and altitude range to adapt to. </div><div><br /></div><div>I stopped to try to find food in my pack and a passerby rudely commented that I had thirteen miles to get to the north rim before sunset. Thanks a lot buddy, but I was acutely aware of the time limitations. The park rangers don’t encourage people to attempt rim to rim in one day because they don’t want to have to rescue them. I was finding out why it was so tough for us mere mortals. The effort was taking everything that I had to keep going.</div><div><br /></div><div>Some other members of my group caught up to me and I walked with them for a while. This area rose upward from the creek and was hot, desolate and dry. Getting cooked and very thirsty, I stopped at Cottonwood for more water. The group went on. It was difficult to suck water out of my camelback container, so I dumped its water into my water bottles and guzzled it. </div><div><br /></div><div>The people I had been walking with were resting at Manzanita. I was exhausted at this point, with the worst yet to come. The next stop had no water, so filled my bottles. Eating gels, jerky, bars, and salt tablets didn’t seem to provide much energy. Part of the problem was that my pack was disorganized and my nuts and trail mix were buried in its depths. My electrolyte mix had spilled. Digging through the pack was too much effort and I wasn’t that hungry. I nibbled on jerky, something that I wouldn’t touch otherwise. The misery of the ironman run came to mind. This seemed about as hard, but with no aid stations or cheering crowds.</div><div><br /></div><div>Stairs were again a real obstacle now and North Kaibab had plenty of them. The ascending trail went down again and I thought really? The bridge that I had hiked down to from the North Rim with my ex in another life came into view. I even have a old picture of it in the time before digital cameras. Ascending North Kaibab long ago was a lot easier without the present previous twenty miles and a few decades of living. My legs were rubbery and threatened to collapse at any moment. The poles helped me to keep climbing, but didn’t always help my teetering balance. The stairs were dodged any chance I could. </div><div><br /></div><div>Another random rim to rim group caught up to me and decided to follow me. Maybe they were just being nice, but they weren’t in a hurry. Finally, a group going at my pace. One of the guys was really kind, offering to let me rest anytime. He gave me a caffeinated gel which helped some. The support of random strangers was nice. I would have probably married him at this point if he didn’t already have a spouse.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span> </div><div><br /></div><div>My shaky, tired legs wanted to quit <i>NOW</i>. Supposedly, the total distance was about twenty miles, but it was longer and never seemed to end. A mile took about 40 minutes now. The altitude was 8,000 feet, which didn’t help. The trees on the north rim obscured the path, so gauging the distance left was difficult. Someone thought that it was twenty-two miles, which was a discouraging thought. After stopping and resting several times, I finally decided to forge ahead the last couple of miles after someone commented how hard it was to stop and go. My last vestiges of strength were being sucked away. Finally we heard cheering through the trees and knew the ordeal had come to an end. <i>I had done it.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Total moving time was 11:25. Elapsed time was 13:17 for the 24 miles, probably due to water stops, Phantom Ranch stop, taking pictures and watching wildlife. It was a remarkable and excruciating experience.</div><div><br /></div><div>It took a few days for the experience to sink in and the memory of the physical pain to fade enough to realize the impact of the experience. The exhausting ordeal didn’t seem worth it at first, but then joy seeped in. The ancient walls had dared me to defy age, physical limitations, dehydration, health problems, mental demons and common sense. The general suckdom of life was forgotten and replaced with lovely riparian scenery replaying in my mind. </div><div><br /></div><div>After struggling with fatigue, mental stress, joint aches, and residual weakness from cancer treatment for two years, I had serious doubts about my physical abilities. It took a long time to even get an opportunity to try and finishing a very difficult goal was gratifying. But the best thing was descending into the Canyon depths and coming out feeling invincible. And badass.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzBgivvBfJ6xAC_GGAynA1VzJk3KvuSiXPLFDhBNhyApqtZ1_80q0RvcVNjUZcSAQLKDYVhaUpVMw19Xd_hr60GQE4Zr0zvYOQXVOPHLfOEqeRazqgCDDWMOnlo5e2q6C-byr4ZoMnNyNogjeYM7jNZ9WUpIRttcbv1Ogr16xDWFHRUY4v98-R_akFqQ/s3872/DSC_0088.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2592" data-original-width="3872" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzBgivvBfJ6xAC_GGAynA1VzJk3KvuSiXPLFDhBNhyApqtZ1_80q0RvcVNjUZcSAQLKDYVhaUpVMw19Xd_hr60GQE4Zr0zvYOQXVOPHLfOEqeRazqgCDDWMOnlo5e2q6C-byr4ZoMnNyNogjeYM7jNZ9WUpIRttcbv1Ogr16xDWFHRUY4v98-R_akFqQ/s320/DSC_0088.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div>trijammerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15858283249053449598noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2182113704801393382.post-31565477412424287732022-07-04T14:23:00.044-07:002022-07-05T16:59:38.167-07:00<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitz2MmuQGXHoOLGP0BdGAgVj-xwAAnVFDJe5uOWuhZxE1jRoNKfjN8AIEH35IWdAwWE5sSV41TIaaF7enOLUJXIAyG35JZg0HJnA0HRjtoGfbrmdTh-Cs3xQa14Y7pPsc_NxJNTg7WLYXrCmSxn79vPMlN1djmPWFW6ZPzr-o1LJdJM_IyYEWVvzO4pg/s1239/Make%20it%20End.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1032" data-original-width="1239" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitz2MmuQGXHoOLGP0BdGAgVj-xwAAnVFDJe5uOWuhZxE1jRoNKfjN8AIEH35IWdAwWE5sSV41TIaaF7enOLUJXIAyG35JZg0HJnA0HRjtoGfbrmdTh-Cs3xQa14Y7pPsc_NxJNTg7WLYXrCmSxn79vPMlN1djmPWFW6ZPzr-o1LJdJM_IyYEWVvzO4pg/s320/Make%20it%20End.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> It’s been two years since active cancer treatment ended for me, and life is different. People always assume that once treatment is over that everything is normal again. The medical nonsense doesn’t end with the twice yearly oncologist visits, blood tests, yearly mammograms, in addition to the assorted other related and unrelated health problems. <p></p><p>A sense of invincibility vanishes with a cancer diagnosis. If one bad medical thing can happen, maybe another one could? Every subsequent scan brings on the small twinge of “what if results are abnormal?” that wasn’t there before. The underlying anxiety never completely goes away even with “no evidence of disease.” Every little stupid medical problem takes on more significance beyond what it really is.</p><p>Physical reminders of what happened are surgery scars, less energy, more depression and strangely, still slightly curly hair from the chemo. Blue dot tattoos are still on my chest from the radiation. My toes are still a little numb from chemo neuropathy. </p><p>Invisible fallout from treatment can also manifest in weird ways. Laundry product scents are still repulsive. This reaction hasn’t diminished much since 2020. My theory is that while walking nauseated around the neighborhood after chemo, the strong smell of fabric softener poisoned my brain permanently. I lost the deep inadequate feeling of sickness and abnormality from having this weird sensation when I finally realized that the vile scents are being vomited into the air by countless suburban dryers, and that the ever present mystery smell was not a figment of my imagination. Now, being subjected to these odors is just irritating. I am the normal one and the users of stinky softeners are the insane ones.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvh--ZePQNz1NjRc477DWjk5oqu51_ZpmWBkvX-v8C9-U-C7yb6JvljufS5uJJg3Ke3joHILaiNXj5kMxaxzkfUWBpl7BPKp4SaWxK1QmJV-O2sWARk1obraVM7bqHbUbDATkXUVKZidGfIvIseUsPZOOf227QrzLy4SQ7f_FB1isLsJc-T-glU_VwqA/s4000/20220705_113956.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvh--ZePQNz1NjRc477DWjk5oqu51_ZpmWBkvX-v8C9-U-C7yb6JvljufS5uJJg3Ke3joHILaiNXj5kMxaxzkfUWBpl7BPKp4SaWxK1QmJV-O2sWARk1obraVM7bqHbUbDATkXUVKZidGfIvIseUsPZOOf227QrzLy4SQ7f_FB1isLsJc-T-glU_VwqA/w200-h150/20220705_113956.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>For God's Sake Stop Buying This Shit!</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>Innocuous things like the freeway exit to the chemo infusion building used to make me inwardly shudder a little every time I passed it, but now it’s more of a shrug. Even a mere four rounds, three weeks apart, was traumatic. The exit was to a place of physical weakness and sick feeling, fatigue, hair loss shame, anxiety and fear of the unknown. Disassociating the experience from the freeway was a relief since I use or pass it often. I don’t have to go there anymore in my mind and it’s just a stupid exit.</p><p>Chemo rooms still invoke fear and anxiety in me. At a bone drug infusion late last year in a chemo room, a surprising strong urge to leave almost overtook me. I convinced myself to stay, and tamped down the fears by talking to the nurses. The bone drug was to counter the bone density loss caused by the Exemestane, a aromatase inhibitor drug that I take that blocks estrogen and therefore cancer growth. </p><p>Part of the anxiety was due to being the first time I had it. The list of its side effects is disturbing, since I always endlessly google them ahead of time. Dealing with the worry about one scary drug is tiresome, without having to deal with others. It made me sick, but not in the same way as chemo. The next two days felt like the flu, with body aches, then I had an eye inflammation and fatigue for a month. If I ever have this drug again, the infusion won’t be in a chemo room. The side effects are bad enough without adding to the unpleasantness. I felt bad for the people who were stuck there through their treatments, when I could walk away.</p><p>I am tired most of the time. The cumulative effects of active treatment and Exemestane have dragged my energy level down. It took over a year to recover to a partial level of prior fitness. Twelve supplements, an antidepressant, an NSAID, an acid blocker, pain treatments and thyroid medication ease the side effects. Exercise and therapy have helped. It’s still a medical merry-go-round. My thyroid medication had to be adjusted. It was very difficult to sleep for a while because of low TSH levels. I spent a lot of time at the opthamologist for the eye problems. My neck developed a constant ache and stiffness that was only slightly relieved by PT, drugs and steroid injections.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGs3PuXsl27XnwZ5OI0t8_JhSG2tmI-fAvJkuK9udC3w3lt1N57QPRYvTXOiRX52DLvIm2Ml-YoLzbjsxAaNX8d6Nd9yvmR-ONfMICNxNj8zVAAvqTMA-pVUe0AAUdgYVKf9EVWCl0nfq1cF0qSCVe3dMfcoI26M-jdKc-mp-qMYoCyAVFItlQKPZMWw/s3224/20220704_131343.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><i><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="3224" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGs3PuXsl27XnwZ5OI0t8_JhSG2tmI-fAvJkuK9udC3w3lt1N57QPRYvTXOiRX52DLvIm2Ml-YoLzbjsxAaNX8d6Nd9yvmR-ONfMICNxNj8zVAAvqTMA-pVUe0AAUdgYVKf9EVWCl0nfq1cF0qSCVe3dMfcoI26M-jdKc-mp-qMYoCyAVFItlQKPZMWw/w200-h186/20220704_131343.jpg" title="How can such a small pill be so evil?" width="200" /></i></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>How can such a small pill be so evil?</i></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="white-space: pre;"></span></div><span style="white-space: pre;"><i> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span></i></span><p></p><p>Doctors push aromatase inhibitors claiming that taking them results in a 50% deterrence of cancer recurrence, but it is not guaranteed. They are all difficult to tolerate. I tried the three types and Exemestane was the only one I could stand. Anastrozole was very harsh, messed up my thyroid and caused intense chest pain. Letrozole made me extremely fatigued. Besides the normal side effects were the unexplained weird ones. Random stabbing pains, scalp pain, tooth aches, muscle cramps, high cholesterol and the loss of any ambition to do anything, whether necessary or fun. </p><p>Lack of energy brought on a case of<i> I just don’t feel like it-itis. </i>Everything seems like too much effort. The house can go clean itself. The cat can mop up her own pee. Getting one thing that needs to done in a day is a win. Forgetting what it was that I was going to do because of brain fog doesn’t help. The urge to just go take a nap is strong.</p><p>I miss estrogen. I used to take HRT and felt a lot better with more energy and less depression. The hot flashes came back and never left. Adjusting to a second menopause involved endless doctor visits, medical tests, support groups, therapy and anxiety. Cancer may feed on estrogen, but the body likes it too. Without it, the bones weaken, the joints ache, the brain forgets words, the lady parts dry up, and moods go south. An added bonus is belly fat. It’s a pharmaceutical crapfest. </p><p>Because of the depression cancer treatment caused, I had to get therapy and take an antidepressant. Questioning all the mean things that I say to myself was an eye opener. Telling myself that I was ugly because my hair fell out wasn’t helpful. Thinking that I was stupid to run into a cranky Uber driver while changing lanes didn’t make the situation any better. My neck pain made it hard to turn my head and I didn’t see him. Saying to myself that people didn’t like me was an assumption not based on reality. It took practice, but I now try to be kinder to myself. My messy house does not mean I am inadequate.</p><p> The thought of taking aromatase inhibitors for three more years seems an eternal punishment. The only thing I could do is make it as bearable as possible. Avoiding cancer recurrence versus the misery of the drug is a tenuous balance that requires a lot of effort to maintain. Neither cancer nor the stupid medicine will rule my life. If I learned anything, a difficult experience can be gotten through with enough help, determination and faith in oneself. And a lot of sticky notes to remember what the hell was it that I forgot to do.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0LQPURoGS7QyuVK_AQVEipNG-odcPf8_C2d_wFa3BsH4BMupLnQV7Fp1ctCp7ocifwMKn36WyrcadmKRVG0hVQL1u6kIC5t9QGtH5P8Was8KTuKin58zDin0_ia08cZZvH23EfdHgSlZdnSkuO7J8FsiUZbLeH-NeTXtN54iooxR1ZUQZ670pvPFk8g/s1495/Cursing%20Owl.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1016" data-original-width="1495" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0LQPURoGS7QyuVK_AQVEipNG-odcPf8_C2d_wFa3BsH4BMupLnQV7Fp1ctCp7ocifwMKn36WyrcadmKRVG0hVQL1u6kIC5t9QGtH5P8Was8KTuKin58zDin0_ia08cZZvH23EfdHgSlZdnSkuO7J8FsiUZbLeH-NeTXtN54iooxR1ZUQZ670pvPFk8g/s320/Cursing%20Owl.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><i>Bird images from <u>Eff'ing Birds</u> by Aaron Reynolds</i></p>trijammerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15858283249053449598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2182113704801393382.post-23829867864627657212021-04-30T19:37:00.000-07:002021-04-30T19:37:16.763-07:00Tower of Terror<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWLguXna4-EL0Jz359fJ6bi5wo-QoQ7nzqrmvbBoA9wD_JLERYHPE2IgRZtghF8A32ZiN7k2QTcnzPX0eyEUx-YOQtt4HSiXHdrXXgRPSj8F_NPIrQ00c1YbQrgCdtKUKtLsbUaJrV4uI3/s290/290px-TowerOfTerror_MGM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="193" data-original-width="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWLguXna4-EL0Jz359fJ6bi5wo-QoQ7nzqrmvbBoA9wD_JLERYHPE2IgRZtghF8A32ZiN7k2QTcnzPX0eyEUx-YOQtt4HSiXHdrXXgRPSj8F_NPIrQ00c1YbQrgCdtKUKtLsbUaJrV4uI3/s0/290px-TowerOfTerror_MGM.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>The end of chemo is a glorious time. It’s like finally reaching the mountain summit and all the muscle pain, strain and sore feet from climbing fades away. A year ago, April 30, 2020 was that day. </p><p>The process to get to the end was wretched. The deep body sickness affected my psyche, with a dive into a dark abyss of fear and misery. It was like having the flu for months on end. Even just four session seemed impossible to endure. End time felt worse and took longer to recover from. Just barely functioning was difficult.</p><p>The side effects were numerous. Hair loss, mouth sores, loss of appetite, nausea, weakness, extreme fatigue, gum pain, dehydration, eye inflammation, anxiety, high blood pressure, depression, neuropathy, rashes, brain fog, constipation, diarrhea, abdominal pain, among others.</p><p>It’s no wonder that I felt like dancing out the infusion room when the last drops of poison dripped from the I.V. bag. I would feel bad afterwards for weeks, but the healing process could begin. Hope shined in. It felt glorious.</p><p>I haven’t been back since to the four story building where I had the infusions, but passing the exit on the freeway reminds me of the experience and I inwardly shudder. It’s my Tower of Terror. The thought of even setting foot in it again brings up the memory of all the countless hours sitting alone in a chair watching the I.V. tube of death dripping into my vein. When the bag emptied, my heart raced and an overwhelming sense of panic set in.</p><p>It’s strange how the brain works. The sight or smell of something dredges up a long forgotten memory, like the scent of pine evokes Christmas or an old school building reminds an adult of roaming grade school hallways. Just the thought of chemo brings out a deep revulsion and a flight response. I want to get away from any hint of it. Maybe that’s why chemical odors bother me so much, with the unconscious association </p><p>Luckily, I haven’t had to set foot in the infusion building since last August. I don’t even like being on the same street or even in the same area.</p><p>It’s taken a lot work to beat back the mental trauma of chemo. Hormone blocker pills worked against recovery. It took a lot of Zoom support groups, doctor visits, tons of supplements, lectures, reading, therapy and tests to get to a place of healing. I still can’t sleep, have hot flashes, back, neck and hand pain mixed with bouts of depression and anxiety from the pill. It’s a struggle to live with it and it’s tempting to quit and take my chances with cancer recurrence. </p><p>Still anything is better than chemo. Hopefully, time and therapy will cure the cure. Hopeless thoughts aren’t reality and the mind gives them more weigh than they deserve.</p><p>Maybe remembering the exhilaration of finishing instead of all the grueling discomfort to get there will diminish the weight of bad memories. </p><div><br /></div>trijammerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15858283249053449598noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2182113704801393382.post-19490069025307984472020-12-13T20:47:00.000-08:002020-12-13T20:47:09.469-08:00 Castle Creek Triathlon<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW8CqHNsG0nWNmQf6gfUemAtkBT9Ae1c4ZH_wOwnBBm6c_Jnc2lpkvKbq4T4VjBvF4SG14pY8R5gXLaBI6TU894S91HsWaABWTJeKTeS_k7MI5gu5ZUayTFgeHrH1qYfhX7UFgsxjK59Fn/s2048/2020-10-03+06.36.29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW8CqHNsG0nWNmQf6gfUemAtkBT9Ae1c4ZH_wOwnBBm6c_Jnc2lpkvKbq4T4VjBvF4SG14pY8R5gXLaBI6TU894S91HsWaABWTJeKTeS_k7MI5gu5ZUayTFgeHrH1qYfhX7UFgsxjK59Fn/s320/2020-10-03+06.36.29.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>Among the things I have missed in 2020 besides traveling and actual human contact is in person triathlon racing. Virtual just doesn’t cut it for the real thing, whether it’s social connection or racing. A decent conversation with a disembodied head on the computer screen is hard. Racing alone takes discipline with no one around to motivate me and it lacks the fun and camaraderie of the actual experience. When this Lake Pleasant Race was actually approved to go on, I signed up for a chance to have a modicum of normal.</p><p>I didn’t feel particularly in shape for it. I had been consistently training, but not intensely, since I was not feeling up to it. Chemo, surgery and radiation had sucked the life out of me and five months later I still wasn’t recovered. Lake Pleasant is nothing but rolling terrain and climbs. I had no energy to run train for hills and the weather had been insanely hot for months. Hilly bike rides and open water lake swims were at least some preparation.</p><p>Of course, if a race was scheduled, my bike had to fall apart. On a ride three days beforehand, the seat seemed loose. With no tools to fix it, I just kept riding. Arriving home, as I dismounted, the seat sadly flopped down and sagged sideways in disapproval of my ineptitude. Upon inspection, a screw and a part was missing. Without a functioning seat, the whole bike was useless. Maybe my mountain bike was an option, but it would be painful on the hills.</p><p>The next day, I retraced my route on my mountain bike and found the missing seat piece laying in the street, but no screw. During the ride the cog on the mountain bike drive train froze. Seriously? Am I cursed by the bike gods? I still could ride home, but the chain complained the whole time.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitasbLfIyffZlMVX0V5TFLZMrZke4-jcc7XtMvj7N6ZrZsUX33JRppYcRAA-vNopHtILkPIgC643QWv15z_iXODANOrvAIAdNPHQ8GOoXHbPKhyS1CYD6zBEzk8b0GSRW0s34uuQUF7d_4/s2048/2020-10-03+06.36.39.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitasbLfIyffZlMVX0V5TFLZMrZke4-jcc7XtMvj7N6ZrZsUX33JRppYcRAA-vNopHtILkPIgC643QWv15z_iXODANOrvAIAdNPHQ8GOoXHbPKhyS1CYD6zBEzk8b0GSRW0s34uuQUF7d_4/s320/2020-10-03+06.36.39.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>Option C was my old road bike. It was nice in its time, but only three of the 24 gears worked because rear shifter just didn’t feel like moving anymore. Also the bike was an iron horse compared to my tri bike, so climbing hills would be a lot of effort. Between my bike woes and my tired body, my expectations were low. But at least it was a real event with actual people.</p><p>Racing during a pandemic is a different animal. People are potential plague carriers and have to be spaced apart from one another. Mask wearing is necessary, at least while milling around. I got there early and set up. Due to Covid, there was a lot of space between the bikes, which was an advantage. No one to intrude on my space or knock my stuff around. For the water entry, we had to stand apart on the ramp and enter the water in timed intervals. </p><p>Lake Pleasant can whip up with the wind, but the water was warm and smooth at 78 degrees. The temperature was cool enough to allow a wetsuit, but I would have worn one legal or not. Swimming in deep, murky water is scary enough without the buoyancy of a neoprene wetsuit to prevent drowning. At this point in 2020, I did not need more stress. </p><p>Sometimes, a swim start makes me hyperventilate with panic, but this time was easy. I swam fairly steady and went faster than I did in training. Somehow, I added 160 yards, not that I needed to swim any longer and took 27 minutes, not counting the long slog up the ramp. I tugged off the wetsuit in transition and mentally gritted for the bike ride.</p><p>The first hill was steep seemed liked a 10% grade and it was all I could do to keep moving. In laymen’s terms 10% grade is a “standing on the pedals to force them to turn and hoping not to fall over climb from lack of momentum.” If only the bike had a lower gear. Was I going to make it up without getting off and walking? Three speeds on my 2001 Trek road bike wasn’t enough. This bike sucked. I feared trashing my legs for the run, but got through the first loop. Downhills saved me. In a sick way it was fun to conquer the terrain, despite the physical suffering. </p><p>But it was still a relief to get to the end with no mechanical problems. The bike and I didn’t fall apart. I thought the ride would take an hour for 12.2 miles, which was slow as hell, but it was about 56 minutes, which was just less mediocre. I had remembered the hills as being tough, but not as bad as they were with an a three gear, heavy piece of crap old bike. It was a reminder why I don’t do a lot of Lake Pleasant races. It’s humbling because the terrain reminds me of my strength and speed limitations.</p><p>I got into transition and dumped the bike to go slog on the run. With a lack of run training on hills, they would be slow and painful. The route went up the god awful hill again, then turned down and up another nasty climb. It didn’t feel as bad as expected. I had estimated a lot of walking and except for some steep ascents, the miles were mostly functional running. </p><p>The whole race took 2:11 to finish. It didn’t matter being at the tail end of slow, that I had to ride my crappy bike or that I wasn’t strong enough to run fast up hills.</p><p>After an abnormal year it was good to have “normal.” 2020 threw at me the physical discomfort and emotional distress of cancer treatment; long periods of social isolation; depression; the stress of dealing with a pandemic; and lack of anything to counter the bleakness. All the cheery optimism blather about “being in it together” and “you are not alone” didn’t make this steaming pile of turd year more bearable. </p><p>So, it was a relief to finish, see people I knew and have an actual event despite Covid. Months of physical weakness from treatment made me doubt my ability to swim, bike and run in succession without keeling over. But my arms and legs still had the muscle memory to get me through water and up hills. They worked better than the ancient bike, which was reassuring.</p><p>All the crap didn’t beat me down. A hint of the high that I used to get when I first started racing emerged. Speed didn’t matter, but conquering the terrain did. Perhaps the threat of deathly disease changed my perspective. Or maybe this year sucked so bad that any good experience was appreciated.</p><p>For real.</p><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>trijammerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15858283249053449598noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2182113704801393382.post-66901487164798314672020-11-08T14:03:00.001-08:002020-11-08T14:03:49.357-08:00UNPREDICTABLITY<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ1tQkpRu0ehZtvZ5KhHmfsT5Z3SfWn1D6bZdFaEbKuFmOnGc9sZyydhSvNmz0tW_wGmpqeNmzec_2-3QIzoTJaDQ1FIMZSXtJQPXsObHky8q81MLfdgz9lBJ2ljOAWiICpfepYfW5niap/s413/20170503_083845-1+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="413" data-original-width="394" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ1tQkpRu0ehZtvZ5KhHmfsT5Z3SfWn1D6bZdFaEbKuFmOnGc9sZyydhSvNmz0tW_wGmpqeNmzec_2-3QIzoTJaDQ1FIMZSXtJQPXsObHky8q81MLfdgz9lBJ2ljOAWiICpfepYfW5niap/w191-h200/20170503_083845-1+%25282%2529.jpg" width="191" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Where did this bird come from?<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></p><p>Sometimes the unknown is exciting. A step into the future without certainty can be a chance for growth, success and joy. But then 2020 happened. It’s more like chaos, depression and death. People have adapted, but we all have lost connections to friends, family and normal activities.</p><p>I long for predictable. Too much uncertainty is terrifying. The pandemic has made planning futile. If I was depressed, I could sign up for a race, see a friend, go to a local museum, volunteer or book a trip. Now all these activities are pretty much impossible. Faces on Zoom don’t entirely make up for it. People are still dying, getting infected and can’t get tested. The end in not in sight. All my methods for coping are useless except for lone activities, phone calls and online meetings. Even as an introvert, I desperately miss traveling and seeing people live. Thrown cancer into this mix and it’s even more complicated and risky.</p><p> Part of my struggle is that after five months, I still wrestle with continuing on Aromatase Inhibitors. The drugs are supposed to decrease the chance of cancer recurrence. I tried Anastrozole, then Letrozole, then Anastrozole again. I hate Anastrozole, but hesitate to again switch to another. Some days it’s awful, with intense fatigue and some mornings I wake up very depressed. Other days, I am fine. Hot flashes, neck and hip joint ache are consistent, but mood isn’t. Other aches come and go on different body parts. My brain is in a fog and I can’t remember what I was doing a minute ago.</p><p>Even the IDEA of this drug is overwhelming because it is not kind. It weighs heavily on the body and spirit. A five year sentence of misery is a long time. But once a person gets cancer, they are tainted with the specter that it might come back, despite all the bodily assaults of treatment. An evil cancer cell might lurk in the depths of the body, waiting to grow. Obsessive research online yields no definitive answers on what to do. Prediction models of cancer mortality are just that--guesses of what might happen.</p><p>I want my old pre cancer life back. Estrogen helps with mood, bone health and the lack of it taxes the mind and body. I have gone from hormone replacement to hormone deprivation and it feels awful. It always feel like something good is missing.</p><p>I suspect a man came up with these drugs, and thought that they were a good idea to take for FIVE years or even TEN in some cases. If he had to subject himself to this god awful medicine, it would have been a different formulation. A woman would have found some way to make the drugs more bearable. </p><p>It’s tempting just to chuck it all and take my chances for recurrence. Two other drugs are options, but not very good ones. Tamoxifin causes blood clots and isn’t as effective Aromasin is expensive even with insurance. They both still cause the hot flashes, depression, fatigue and joint pain. </p><p>I don’t know where my life is going, but it would be nice to be able to diminish the specter of cancer that is looming over it. Meanwhile, the world stumbles through Covid and the election nears. With fires, floods, drought, hurricanes, murder hornets and a pandemic, what’s next 2020? </p><p>At least my head is no longer bald, though five months after chemo my hair is not even an inch long and is growing in random direction. Maybe it’s waiting to thrive too.</p><p><br /></p><p> </p><div><br /></div>trijammerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15858283249053449598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2182113704801393382.post-14438449202169579012020-07-27T17:29:00.000-07:002020-07-27T17:29:49.669-07:00SURVIVORSHIP?<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1yzwEub1wpy2Y9N5wJ9qTuM_k2LjC_Gt9aBN16cGH9oaU-QlA12hTw02eBx6pUBtAoriKYs7v9Hg9sv2rTZPUsNLSBCCKh7P8qoql17om8UE2ojBpnWRyrKQZa41z3HMo6flngmjfH6Rj/s1600/2020-07-26+16.31.20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1219" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1yzwEub1wpy2Y9N5wJ9qTuM_k2LjC_Gt9aBN16cGH9oaU-QlA12hTw02eBx6pUBtAoriKYs7v9Hg9sv2rTZPUsNLSBCCKh7P8qoql17om8UE2ojBpnWRyrKQZa41z3HMo6flngmjfH6Rj/s200/2020-07-26+16.31.20.jpg" width="151" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Evil pills</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Recovery is a bitch. A mean, vengeful screaming harpy. After the last round of chemo, I was ecstatic. This misery was <i>DONE</i>. But after the haze of sickness eased, my brain woke up and thought <i>OH MY GOD, THAT WAS TRAUMATIC</i>. During treatment, all I could handle was getting through it. Now that the emotional and physical stress of diagnosis, surgery, radiation and chemo was over, the mental baggage carried around from the whole process came out of storage and tumbled down. I had naively thought the physical healing was the only thing to worry about. The mental part was just as hard. And the two were intertwined.<br />
<br />
This transition from cancer treatment to “normal” life is called survivorship, though the term isn’t necessarily accurate or appropriate. Survivorship is general, meant to encompass all stages from diagnosis to life after treatment. Not everyone has a set end time or even a cure, though. It also sounds like the patient is a victim rather than a warrior and fighting is required to survive the ordeal.<br />
<br />
The leap back into routine has been emotionally discombobulating. Everything was different, with no point of reference. Now with the ordeal done, I was unsettled and lost.<br />
<br />
I was bald for four months and my hair growth was still sluggish. <i>Hurry up and grow already!</i> The damage was still there, taunting me. It mattered more than I thought. The bristle that had survived the chemical onslaught, grew softer, darker and longer, sprouting in random directions. But it was too light and sparse to cover the baldness. My eyebrows disappeared, then stragglers came back. Most of my lower eyelashes fell out. I longed for normal hair. I had to block inner thoughts that told me that I was ugly. <br />
<br />
Physical fatigue hung around like an unwelcome guest that wouldn’t leave. It was cumulative and stronger from each infusion. The last chemo recovery took longer than the others. The muscle weakness eased off, but the bad memory of it didn’t, worming into my brain. Running was easier, but it wasn’t as fast and strong as it used to be. Feeling good was elusive. Sometimes, I just wanted to nap all day. Tiredness came out of nowhere and hit hard.<br />
<br />
My mind was weary as well. Worry about side effects, what was going to happen, insurance and bills was exhausting. Throw in a pandemic into the mix and it was much worse. Was I more likely to get Covid with a compromised immune system? Was it a good idea to be In the grocery store hunting for nonexistent toilet paper while tired and queasy? Emotional support programs were cancelled, <i>so good luck and you are on your own</i>. I had no one to complain about my life, which made the isolation worse.<br />
<br />
Part of the recovery distress was realizing that people still stunk, literally. From chemo I had acquired a strong, gut punching aversion to sickly sweet odors of cologne, deodorant or soap. This affliction remained. I assumed everyone got this, but found out they didn’t and I felt like a freak. Little research about it was online about and no information that it’s an after effect. Maybe it was a psychological reaction. Entering a locker room that was just disinfected made me queasy for ten minutes. Outside, scents assaulted me with no visible source. A revolting smell could emanate even from a passing car. Leaving the house meant an olfactory war. Viscerally, my body recoiled from scents that everyone else thought was nonexistence or pleasant. The stench of a passing bike rider brought forth a flashback of being sick and weak during chemo. How did this happen?<br />
<br />
Treatment wasn’t really done, either. The oncologist recommended another torture, a hormone blocker, since the original cancer cells responded to estrogen and progesterone. Decreasing estrogen by 70% to prevent cancer recurrence sounds good in theory, but not so much in living with it. These drugs can cause joint pain, bone loss and hot flashes, among many others. They have paragraphs of side effects. People complain online about crippling pain. The pills are supposed to be taken for five years, which is a long time to be miserable. It’s difficult to commit to that length of time if the pills are unbearable. Life is too short.<br />
<br />
Doctors aren’t always helpful offering ways to ease the side effects. They think a patient should live with it or take more drugs with even more side effects to counter the ones of the original drug. It’s cruel. Taking the drug is a steep price to pay for a vague chance of preventing recurrence.<br />
<br />
Each new treatment, I imagined the worse, thought “no way”, gritted my teeth and did it anyway. Why does it always have to feel so bad? Why can’t doctors do a better job making procedures more bearable? Why can’t drug companies make more tolerable drugs? The treatments are worst than the disease. I have reached my limit in putting up with them.<br />
<br />
Anastrozole made my hip ache and hot flashes were more intense and numerous. I would give anything not to be drenched in sweat ten times a day. The pill killed my appetite and deposited fat in my abdomen. Occasionally, it caused headaches and nausea. Worst of all is the melancholy that came out of nowhere. I was sad for no reason and lacked motivation to do anything. The stupid pandemic forced isolation added to the funk. Part of me felt like I had died. I missed my hormones and wanted them back.<br />
<br />
Now on Letrozole, it’s not much better. The joint pain and depression is a little less, but occasionally the fatigue is intense. I feel dead inside and tired. It’s difficult to decide what to do about it. Another drug might be just as bad. Be miserable for five years? Don’t take it and risk recurrence? Trade quality of life for less chance of cancer? Use natural supplements that may or may not work?<br />
<br />
In an attempt to feel less isolated and to regain a sense of peace, I have tried a Zoom cancer support group, hypnotherapy, Nidra yoga, and an assortment of naturopathic supplements. Exercise is also good if I can avoid stinky people. All these remedies help somewhat, though the lack of physical social contact due to the pandemic makes it more difficult. I could seriously use a real hug. Cancer is an emotional wallop, even when the prognosis is good.<br />
<br />
This difficult experience left scars, invisible and physical. They harden, constrict and distort flesh, burrow into the brain and change thoughts and emotions.<br />
<br />
It beats the alternative, though.<br />
<br />
Recovery is a f’ing bitch.trijammerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15858283249053449598noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2182113704801393382.post-81614607562705012462020-05-26T17:28:00.000-07:002020-05-26T17:28:11.273-07:00CANCER TREATMENT AND EXERCISE<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNao2-ydXjtYXIoJcXSvWT2olET2BghSS37Wr_3JF2vnQlrvJA3OoFZylxcCTjushk5NAsjp3lPw8YgeyYaKZAz6fmA-USxRIcGvLMeOX_bIG0Mh9NGaOIoZLlH4694GH9CdCWEYJV7yQG/s1600/1_m-100715127-DIGITAL_HIGHRES-1267_070543-582115.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNao2-ydXjtYXIoJcXSvWT2olET2BghSS37Wr_3JF2vnQlrvJA3OoFZylxcCTjushk5NAsjp3lPw8YgeyYaKZAz6fmA-USxRIcGvLMeOX_bIG0Mh9NGaOIoZLlH4694GH9CdCWEYJV7yQG/s320/1_m-100715127-DIGITAL_HIGHRES-1267_070543-582115.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ironman California 70.3, 2016, Last official 70.3 finish</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I NEED exercise. Without it, I get depressed and cranky. An addict must have the fix despite bad weather, injury or sickness. I have ridden my bike with a broken hand in a cast, in hail storms and in hundred degree heat. I have limped to finish a run race with my knee torn open from a fall. Common sense does not always prevail.<br />
<br />
Some people that know me think I am insane for even attempting long distances, or any distance at all, for that matter. I don’t do many full or half ironmans anymore due to injury and lack of speed. On the spectrum of crazy, I consider myself to be fairly reasonable. A hundred mile trail run or double ironman is not in my future. A reach goal is fine, but suffering excessively is not. Nor is being pulled from a race because I am too slow the finish the long distance within a time limit.<br />
<br />
People who are seriously active also like to compete with one another in races and socialize. We have a common bond of loving physically brutal activity. It transcends political views, economic status and even personality. It doesn’t even matter how bad we suck at the particular activity. I am a horrible swimmer, a mediocre cyclist and a slow runner, but I do it anyway. Competing against myself is the object, since I have little chance of beating anyone else.<br />
<br />
So anything that is an obstacle to this fix is a major imposition. Even early stage cancer treatment is disruptive. The body does not like being cut open, given toxic chemicals and being burned from the inside out. The abused tissue and bone reacts by saying “piss off, I am going to take a nap” upon any request to expend energy.<br />
<br />
General recommendations for exercise with cancer treatment are 150 per week aerobic, 75 minutes harder effort. Quantifying effort is a vague target. One is supposed to be able to talk with effort during aerobic, but this would vary according to how physically active one was before cancer. If a person never got off a couch to walk a mile, it would be way more effort when unhealthy and suffering from the inevitable side effects of treatment.<br />
<br />
Information about recommendations for a person used to activity is sparse. Maybe the “experts” assume no one does more exercise. Some say “listen to your body.” This advice is not helpful if the body and the brain is giving conflicting messages. Experts suggest some movement even if tired, but what is the limit? My heart rate goes up higher than normal even with slow movement. The balance is finding what the body can tolerate without stressing it too much.<br />
<br />
Before, only two to three hours per week of physical activity was very little to me. When my cancer was diagnosed, I was training for an ironman. The peak was almost twenty hours of swim, bike and run. This amount is not typical, because it is entirely too time consuming and exhausting. Normally, it used to be about twelve hours per week for me.<br />
<br />
Along came cancer and smacked me down. My usual training was altered drastically. Instead of biking or running hard or long, the intensity was determined by fatigue. My body was in control, not my mind. The effort that would have been pathetic six months ago, was now the norm. It was utterly humbling. A ninety minute bike ride was now forty-five minutes. A ninety minute run was now thirty. It was a big loss of fitness from where I used to be in. I lost my mojo.<br />
<br />
Each treatment had its insidious effects and misery. Surgery made me tired and healing cut tissue and chest muscles hurt. After clearance from the doctor, it was tough to run with the pain at first. The parts did not want to be jiggled. Gradually, I recovered enough to run a 5k race three and a half weeks later with a fairly normal time. That was the last race for a long time due to fatigue, weakness and the coronavirus cancelling the world.<br />
<br />
Radiation, which was only a week, but twice a day, made me feel weak, tired and a little nauseated. The feeling of an all over body sickness would come and go. Short bikes, swims and runs were s a struggle to get through.<br />
<br />
Unlike radiation, chemo had cycles in which I felt like utter crap for ten days, then merely bad for the other ten days. The predictability was an advantage in planning, but the side effects on the bad days were worse than the other treatments. Minimal training was a struggle in the bad days, then a little better in the good days. Sometimes I could barely walk a mile. It was nothing resembling what I used to do. The goal was to not totally deteriorate into a sagging bag of bones.<br />
<br />
The easiest form of exercise was walking, which was done in the days right after an infusion. The hardest was running, which only went well in the second or third week of the three week cycle. Even good runs were slow with not much stamina. My legs were too weak to push off and I would have to stop and walk to catch my breath. Improvement was slow, only to be destroyed with the next infusion. Races became only a memory. So did having fun.<br />
<br />
Even with a weakened physical state, some exercise was better than nothing. Sick or not I had to have my fix. I would have been in a much worse state without it. It felt much better to move than to give into the depression and fatigue. It was a weapon to fight back with. Cancer and it’s toxic treatments wouldn't win. But some days it felt like I was losing to it.<br />
<br />
Whether I will ever feel normal again to is yet to be seen. Losing physical capacity and energy is frustrating. To not be in control is scary. All I can do is forge ahead and hope some semblance comes back of what I was before treatment. It will take time, patience and persistence.trijammerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15858283249053449598noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2182113704801393382.post-85862476302246382362020-05-04T17:09:00.000-07:002020-05-04T17:09:04.651-07:00HAIR LOSS AND CHEMO<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOj-B5aY-ipTHUOV1KQiWmAzmUGnqwm5d_49tpXAPZDe1679mebnviEL9U2UvdGBo1-3PjgzwHpi_4-PBG7eNsXCn3xCA3_anywa-8v5FNj3Hcl6CzHQmIFWcwhjLka9uQJJ4dcCNePGTl/s1600/duathlon+003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOj-B5aY-ipTHUOV1KQiWmAzmUGnqwm5d_49tpXAPZDe1679mebnviEL9U2UvdGBo1-3PjgzwHpi_4-PBG7eNsXCn3xCA3_anywa-8v5FNj3Hcl6CzHQmIFWcwhjLka9uQJJ4dcCNePGTl/s320/duathlon+003.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When I had more hair<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></td></tr>
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My initial negative thought, when I found out about needing chemo was, besides the million nasty side effects, that I would be bald. I get to feel bad AND look ugly. Baldness was not a good look because I just didn’t have the face shape for it. My high forehead desperately needed to be covered with bangs. Only I wouldn’t have them. The whole concept was difficult to imagine while my head still had hair.<div>
<br />Having hair is something that I took for granted. It kept my head from getting sunburned in the summer and from getting cold in the winter. A strand of hair was something to fiddle with when nervous. Destroying this feature was a drastic change and I hated change..</div>
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My hair was thick, straight, medium length and grew fast. Not liking the natural drab color with gray, periodically I had it colored with blond highlights. Hair was good to have.</div>
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Hair loss typically occurs between the first and second chemo treatment. The toxic drugs kill healthy, growing cells along with the cancer. Medical people dismiss the impact and say that it will grow back . But they aren’t the ones with their hair falling out. The condition being impermanent doesn’t make the process any easier or lessen the shock of losing hair. Something that had been there forever is gone. It’s death at a cellular level. And it looks bald for <i>MONTHS.</i></div>
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My hair loss began at two weeks from the first treatment. I dreaded the start of this but knew it was inevitable. One day clumps of hair came out when I passed a comb through it. The bare spots started at the top at the part, then spread gradually out all over. Eventually, long strands tentatively hung on, with large areas of baldness like Gollum from Lord of the Rings. The look was hideously corpse like and worse than being totally hairless. </div>
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Shaving it was inevitable. I hated to give up the last remnants, but they were uncomfortable. The hair shed all over, my scalp hurt and itched. Finally, my hairdresser shaved it off. I covered my bare head with a cap. </div>
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Now bald, unexpectedly the exposed skin felt cool. This sensation was weird, like wet hair that wasn’t there. When I shampooed my head, I still expected to touch hair and only had stubble. It dried almost instantly. My blow dryer and curling comb sat in the cabinet abandoned. </div>
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The worst part of being in this state of appearance was that it screamed <i>CANCER PATIENT</i> and <i>SICK</i> It told the world what my state of health was, which I would rather people not know. It reminded me that life wasn’t normal right now. But I wasn’t motivated to get a wig. The summer heat was coming on and encasing my head in a hot wig sounded unappealing. Besides I had a hermit like existence due to the coronavirus anyway. Not that many people I knew were going to see me.</div>
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I was numb about the hair loss, in order to not think about it. The other side effects felt worse and were more difficult to deal with. Losing my appetite and feeling dead tired plunged me into a depression. I just accepted the condition, though being bald sucked. The actual event wasn’t as bad as the anticipation, though. </div>
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I still am a little self-conscience and don’t want people to see my present state. I always put a cap on when going outside just to fetch the newspaper. I wear a hat in anyone’s physical presence or in teleconferences. Out of sight, I don’t even think about it. My image in the mirror looks like a stranger.</div>
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It’s just not about being bald, it’s the difficult process of toxic chemicals also taking well-being, energy, a sense of peace and joy. As I have now finished the chemo, the day awaits when the side effects wear off and my hair starts to grow again in a month or so. My body will heal from the poison and come out on the other side to recovery.</div>
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trijammerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15858283249053449598noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2182113704801393382.post-89267778669779536012020-04-17T16:24:00.000-07:002020-04-17T16:24:06.332-07:00CHEMO<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQU71A_5_8RtLMmTNDPG5RSmk3MKMU-oaalkXipQB-Yi_paTfVSqD_30Hr6RU2955cfSnoytDS2K6H4OxVpvMFustwipQ1VPMdM5htrhH7HN3uqH9N5lVTbAEyyyOOE8h94ffc2a8TqOFo/s1600/2018-12-30+12.37.57.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQU71A_5_8RtLMmTNDPG5RSmk3MKMU-oaalkXipQB-Yi_paTfVSqD_30Hr6RU2955cfSnoytDS2K6H4OxVpvMFustwipQ1VPMdM5htrhH7HN3uqH9N5lVTbAEyyyOOE8h94ffc2a8TqOFo/s320/2018-12-30+12.37.57.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hopes springs eternal that I will hike the Grand Canyon someday.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Cancer treatment is a series of physical and mental bludgeons. It’s not a stupid journey, it’s a roller coaster that threatens to derail. The end seems near, the body starts to recover, then relief gets snatched away. The train screams downward, off the cliff. A bad test result changes everything.<br />
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I assumed a run of the mill appointment with the oncologist. Not being one ease into softening the blow, he whipped out the Oncotype report and stated that my score that one point too high. The test scores the likelihood of re-occurrence of cancer and who would benefit from chemotherapy, which the doctor recommended . The one thing that had gotten me through all the tests, the surgery and radiation was doctors telling me that chemo was probably NOT needed. Now, it suddenly was.<br />
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It’s not like the original Seeds of Death had children. No tumor was present anymore. Chance of re-occurrence was a nebulous concept. My internet reading said that Oncotype is the gold standard of testing, but what if it was wrong or had a one percent error rate? Unfortunately, I couldn’t bet my life on ignoring it and had to suffer the consequences.<br />
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It was an emotional blow. Of all the nasty cancer treatments, chemo was the most dreadful with neuropathy, fatigue, hair loss and god knows what other side effects. It was medically sanctioned poison. My spring plans could be ruined–races and a trip to the Grand Canyon that I had been waiting years to do. <br />
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The terror of the unknown was the worst part. How bad would I feel? Would I be able to function some? How would my body react? How would I cope? Would permanent damage occur? Nothing was in my control. It would be a longer and more involved treatment than radiation or surgery. The fact that I had heard survivors talk about neuropathy and extreme fatigue, even after treatment was long done didn’t help.<br />
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The rest of the day was a mental daze. I thought I was done with this shit, now I had to face more discomfort and fatigue. I wanted to cry and was a nervous wreck. How had this come to past?’.<br />
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I saw a nurse for the chemo teaching and felt better. She explained procedures, the medicines and their side effects and how I would feel. She didn’t discourage physical activity, but said to listen to my body. This was a relief. Maybe I will make the Grand Canyon after all.<br />
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I got prescriptions for anti-nausea medicine. The nurse said I will feel okay the day of and two days after treatment, but the fourth day might be rough. I will have three weeks to recover, with four sessions.<br />
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FIRST TREATMENT:<br />
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My friend went with me because I wasn’t sure how my body would react. I found out they were going to use Neulasta as well. My materials had no information about it and I thought that was going to be given later, after lab tests. It’s a doser attached to my abdomen for 27 hours, at which time it injects the dose over an hour. So much for running and swimming that day. It has the side effect of bone pain because it draws white blood cells from the bone marrow. It also costs $9200 a dose, which hopefully insurance covered because that’s a hell of a lot of money.<br />
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The I.V.’s were tedious process. The mental distraction of my friend’s chatter was good to keep my mind off from pondering the implications of receiving toxic substances. It was surreal that this was actually happening. I kept my feet and hands in socks with frozen ice packs most of the time to ward off neuropathy. The first one, Taxatere was supposed to be 1.5 hours, but the tube leaked and they had to make up another one. It had steroids in it, which made me anxious and made my heart race, especially when the bag was near empty.<br />
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The second one, Cytoxan, took an hour. I stared up at the bag willing for the fluid to be gone The last one. also made me panicky. Before that dose was finished, they installed the Neulasta device on my abdomen, which stabbed me with a little metal hook device. It was awkward to wear and I feared dislodging the pricey thing. We went home when the second I.V. stopped.<br />
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I didn’t have too much nausea the rest of the day, but I was tired. Eating was possible, but I didn’t have much appetite.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
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The next day, my brain was foggy brained and my body was tired. I took loraditine for the Neulasta dose later. I had no nausea, but no hunger, either. I muddled through the morning, but felt better in the afternoon. The steroid pills made me feel icky. The Neulasta device went off without any problems.<br />
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For the next week, the side effects of the chemo drugs attacked my digestive system. Every pre-existing problem that I had was aggravated. Years of reflux taught me that I can’t eat fatty foods or dairy without indigestion. I had learned to adjust my diet, but now couldn’t figure out how to deal with it. The reflux flared up badly and stomach and intestine motility was sluggish, causing bloating and pain. Food that I used to love was repulsive. Tragically, chocolate tasted bad, coffee wasn’t as good and beer made me severely gassy. Hot food hurt my mouth. Even pretzels upset my stomach. To not like food wiped joy out of my life. The misery at times was unbearable.<br />
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The anti-nausea pills didn’t help the lack of appetite and I had to force myself to eat.<br />
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Exercise was still possible, but it was a struggle. Some movement was better than nothing. It maintained my muscles, kept my immunity up and saved my sanity. I wanted some sense of normalcy. After years of consistent raining, it probably wasn’t as hard to keep up as if I had let it lapsed.<br />
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For a few days after treatment, my brain still wasn’t functioning well and simple tasks took a lot of effort. The neurons weren’t firing and driving anywhere seemed risky. How I was going to get through three more sessions of this?<br />
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One day, I had a massive bout to diarrhea. I pooped 12 times before it stopped. It was violent, even more that I had gotten with any food poisoning. The doctor’s office and they said to take two tablets right away, then another for each incident. Eight a day could be taken. The mistake was following the package directions which said wait two hours after food, and only take four per day. Normal instructions didn’t work against the firestorm of my bowels and the result was bad dehydration.<br />
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My mouth by this time had developed sores and felt like the bottom of a bird cage. Acidic or hot food was painful to eat. At least sleep was better because of exhaustion. My hot flashes had thankfully disappeared for now. My temperature seems to be trending upward, though not at the point of calling it in. <span style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
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The seventh day I was queasy most of the day. An anti-nausea drug didn’t help that much. I saw the oncologist and he arranged for me to have an I.V. That took another two hours, but it was necessary. I should drink more water, but it’s hard when swallowing hurts. <br />
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Since medical doctors couldn’t or wouldn’t really help my distressed mental state, I had a Reiki session the day after. It was relaxing and weird. Somehow someone waving their hands over me worked and I imaged or actually felt an energy field over my brain. The session was more relaxing than the last time I tried it. Hopefully, it will help. The therapist claimed that it was like having four hour REM sleep. I doubt I get that every night. Usually my full bladder wakes me up and I can’t get back to sleep.<br />
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By day ten my digestion was better, I had more energy and life seemed more bearable .As the second week passed, I developed an eye inflammation. Last year, the one in my right eye took four mouths to clear up. It started with severe eye pain, then redness and sensitivity to light. My retina swelled up and caused visual distortions. To avoid the other eye getting that bad, I saw my retina doctor. One more thing to deal with. The eye got better with steroid drops, but the reaction from the chemo worried me.<br />
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About this time, the whole Corona Virus thing blew up. Grocery shopping yielded empty shelves. The emptiness of the toilet paper aisle was stunning. Oatmeal or ground turkey was gone. Going swimming or go to the library was impossible anymore because they closed. Group meetings and Reiki were cancelled. The physical social world shut down. The world had an air of unreality. Being in a pandemic and immune compromised was unsettling.<br />
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I had worried about chemo ruining all my spring plans and it turned out the virus cancelled all the races and trips anyway. Mentally, I resigned to the disappointment. It can’t be this bad forever. Certainly, life will be better when the chemo ends. Hope seemed like a long way off, though.<br />
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Countering all the difficulty was friends calling, offering support on social media and even people bringing my meals and supplies. I felt guilty asking for or getting help, but decided to accept it at the urging of a friend. It restored my faith in humanity, despite the toilet paper hoarders. My thanks to all the helpers in the world.<br />
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<br />trijammerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15858283249053449598noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2182113704801393382.post-68803285421122446832020-03-23T17:00:00.001-07:002020-03-23T17:00:57.340-07:00RADIATIONRadiation is barbaric. Chemo is more so, but if I am going to get my flesh toasted, can’t it be a less odious procedure? Doctors told me that my options were to get cooked every weekday for a month or have Brachytherapy, in which a probe the size of a thumb was inserted and left 24/7 for a week, with twice daily visits for five days to insert radioactive seeds. This would require restricting basic activities like showers and would hurt. This probe resembled an thumb-sized egg beater, with tubes sticking out. Nope. Nope, nope, nope. That thing in my body? How would it even fit? My second thought was can’t they do better?<br />
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Reading too many internet articles on radiation side effects had scared me. Flesh blisters, hardened flesh and fatigue sounded terrible. Did I really need to do this?<br />
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My medical oncologist suggested a doctor that has a week long/twice per day external beam radiation treatment, with no interior eggbeater probe. This seemed too good to be true, because the surgeon had not thought it an option and the radiation doctor had not offered it. Going twice a day would be pain, but the short time line could minimize side effects of fatigue and possible skin damage.<br />
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My first appointment with the radiation oncologist got off to a rocky start because she was late, but she seemed like nice. She apologized for the delay and explained that she had been using this radiation method for twenty years and that the short time period was an advantage. Wanting to get this treatment over quickly, I was sold.<br />
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The second appointment, a technician cat-scanned the area to be radiated and made a mold of the body to position it precisely. They also tattooed the point where the machine zaps the flesh.<br />
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The first treatment took about twenty minutes. Ill-timed road construction made me late, which only added to the stress. My body was positioned and I had to lay still the whole time with my arms overhead gripping the hand rest. The machine hummed and whistled, passing to the right, then stopping for what seemed five minutes. Nothing felt hot when the beam moved over me. The round part of its head then rotated and passed back across to the left. The only thing to stare at besides the machine was the green laser light across the ceiling. Too bad a picture wasn’t up there to look at to ease the tedium. When it was done, someone came in the room to help me get up.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqv-HgYDwKLFDMB9EGLaPKh6pK1ZjWGFzaurN_95W7QbiKu4chzHnGRqlTtlo0VWuRCufrrZVzolNlDnA9eBc5e9HLDMlFCOucNe5UA4vT0qs0pg7594fP-sNTacx0U0SK63IlHZ5VaVGB/s1600/vincere.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="267" data-original-width="400" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqv-HgYDwKLFDMB9EGLaPKh6pK1ZjWGFzaurN_95W7QbiKu4chzHnGRqlTtlo0VWuRCufrrZVzolNlDnA9eBc5e9HLDMlFCOucNe5UA4vT0qs0pg7594fP-sNTacx0U0SK63IlHZ5VaVGB/s320/vincere.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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The decor of this place was much better than the usual medical institution. The waiting room was round with a tall ceiling, enhanced by organic wood cut outs and a fancy chandelier. The dressing room was decorated with butterflies. Still, I just wanted to get in and out in a hurry. After the radiation, I rubbed cream on the affected body part, which was red and hot, then got the hell out of there.</div>
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The after effects were sneaky. They would come and go and sometimes stay. I felt fine driving away the first time, then suddenly felt weak, tired and a little queasy. I continued to my destination, but didn’t feel that good. I considered going home, but continued on. I felt a little better after a while. </div>
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I got a swim in, then lunch. Exercise kept me sane through this process, even if I was too tired to do it well. It was something under my control that made life seem more normal. In the afternoon, I returned to the place using a different route.</div>
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I repeated the pattern. The next day, I ran, then went to the radiation place again. I didn’t feel woozy, but was tired. I got some grocery shopping done afterwards. The yucky feeling came later in the day. The breast was sore and looked a little red, but wasn’t too bad. </div>
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The third day I felt tired and weak in the morning and it continued through the afternoon. I told the doctor, but she didn’t offer much help. It was something to suck up and get on with. A nap helped. </div>
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The fourth day I ran again, then felt crappy for the first appointment. Then, swimming in the cold weather, which was uncomfortable. The stiff wind blew on my wet arms. It was a struggle to keep going through the fatigue, but I stubbornly persisted.</div>
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In the afternoon, a nap beckoned, but had to wait until after the second appointment. The pattern of exhaustion seemed to be worse in the morning, better in the afternoon.</div>
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Friday and the last day of radiation! I felt icky again after the morning session. Afterwards, I saw the doctor. My usually low blood pressure was very high again. My left arm has a lower reading, but they won’t use that one anymore, due to it being on the side of the surgery site. Maybe it was a problem to be looked into, or maybe it was stress. The fatigue after treatment will get worse for a while, then get better. The skin looked a little red, but was otherwise okay. Skin reactions can occur up to ten days after treatment.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqa-KgEtNsgiMaXspGIrPNPnxwftX7mbgfqlKo7p6eK6n6QtnMrvPAEj4T-Mb1cAde4Zo7jtHTEMPBTdxlPkAzvdoieVCJbhCDC05j-bYzRf9gGeUMs2zulrSBWscH0d-_0XT10kDLBab9/s1600/20200209_130917-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="332" height="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqa-KgEtNsgiMaXspGIrPNPnxwftX7mbgfqlKo7p6eK6n6QtnMrvPAEj4T-Mb1cAde4Zo7jtHTEMPBTdxlPkAzvdoieVCJbhCDC05j-bYzRf9gGeUMs2zulrSBWscH0d-_0XT10kDLBab9/s200/20200209_130917-1.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Were they Really Gone?<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I got to hit the shiny golden metal gong for the last treatment. Was this ordeal really over? The fatigue, the nausea and the stress? I almost felt a sense of guilt not going through as much as other cancer patients. Only a month of treatment with surgery and radiation. A week later, I felt almost normal again. I was lucky to be relatively unscathed. Maybe the ghost cells were still there, but the original Seeds of Death must be gone. In the mushy medical world of prediction, radiation was supposed to prevent re-occurrence, but not with total certainty.<div>
<br />What a relief. Life could move forward again. Or so I thought.</div>
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NEXT UP: CHEMO</div>
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trijammerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15858283249053449598noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2182113704801393382.post-40845205832131823702020-03-04T15:42:00.001-08:002020-03-04T17:29:05.012-08:00SurgerySince I had small, lazy cancer, either a mastectomy or lumpectomy could be done. My goal was to disrupt my life as little as possible. A mastectomy would mean a 0-5% re-occurrence rate and no radiation, except if the nodes were positive for cancer. It would require 4-6 weeks recovery. The survival rate of a lumpectomy was the same, with a 5-10% re-occurrence rate, but would require radiation. The recovery would take a week. The trauma of removal and a long recovery of loping off a body part was not appealing, especially with a small cancer. I chose lumpectomy.<br />
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This recovery from this surgery meant no swimming for two weeks, no running or cycling for a week. This was annoying, but tolerable. Walking was allowed. At least my muscles wouldn’t totally go to hell. Being a Type A triathlete, it’s very hard to let my body go idle.<br />
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Transportation to the surgery and back would be a hassle. I hated to ask anyone to help, but had no choice. The schedule was stupid. I had to be at one place at 10:30 a.m. for a needle localization, then go to another place for the surgery and wait around until 3:00 p.m. This was a lot to ask someone. Maybe I could Uber down and have someone pick me up, so they weren’t waiting around forever.<br />
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Eight hours prior to surgery, fasting was required and drinking nothing except a cup of sports drink. At least I could get breakfast and coffee before 7:00 a.m. No coffee would be unbearable. Not being able to drink water made me anxious. I was a little light-headed riding down. A friend drove me and stuck around the area the whole time. I felt bad about the inconvenience to her.<br />
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The needle location involved compressing the breast in an mamogram machine and inserting a long, thin needle that projected out of the tissue. The imager suggested not looking at it and I had no urge to see an alien projectile emerging from my body. Then, they coiled it up and covered it in a bandaid. The needle insertion hurt, like the last time, even with numbing. At least I got to sit down and it wasn’t as much poking.<br />
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They made me take a wheel chair down and my driver took me to the other place. Again, it was the routine of registering, waiting around, and going back to a holding area. My driver took off after the registration. I found out to my surprise that someone was supposed to stay all night with me and that I had to get rid of my debit card and cash. But of course I had to pay their fee. It would have been nice to know this ahead of time.<br />
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I laid on a gurney for 1.5 hours until a nurse came and gave me an IV. I got rid of my contacts beforehand. I had been warm waiting, but when the fluid was injected, I got cold and my legs felt shaky. After some more waiting, another nurse asked me a bunch of medical questions. She was a talkative and no nonsense. She complained about the omission by someone of my support socks. My blood pressure soared again with the stressful idea of being cut up.<br />
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General anesthesia would be used, with a breathing tube. The anesthesia doctor came in and I mentioned my past experience after surgery that involved a splitting headache and vomiting three times. Hopefully, this wouldn’t happen again.<br />
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Reading a book about Alexander Hamilton passed the time in between the various medical personnel. Waiting was boring and stressful. Finally, it was showtime. Surgery was supposed to last an hour and a half.<br />
<br />
My surgeon came in and talked about the surgery and aftercare. The results of the test to see if the margins were clear would come in four days. Rarely, the surgery has to be done again. The results of the test on the nodes would take two weeks to come in. She suggested that my February 10k might be better to pass on because the side effects of the anesthesia last a long time. I was surprised to hear that, blithely thinking that I would feel fine in a short amount of time.<br />
<br />
I don’t remember getting a sedative or anesthesia. Waking up, I was really groggy, but not in pain because the surgeon had given me a novocaine block. Wanting to really get the hell out of there, I tried desperately to force myself out of the mental fog. It was dark outside and the holding area looked empty.<br />
<br />
When I was more functional, they put me in a soft chair to get dressed. My driver couldn’t start her car, so she had to call her husband to jumpstart the car. I finally got out of there by six. We stopped by the drugstore to get painkiller pills. She had called my other friend to stay for the night. I wasn’t prepared for this and was stressed, but we adapted.<br />
<br />
I ate some applesauce and plain brown rice, because I wasn’t super hungry and didn’t want to risk nausea. I went to bed about 8:30.<br />
<br />
I was too tired to get up and take the painkiller at 9:40, but by 11:30, the novocaine had worn off and I hurt, so I took one. Sleep was difficult, especially on my left side. My back also hurt, so I tried laying on a lacross ball to unknot the muscles. The cat complained a few times during the night. All in all, a crappy night’s sleep.<br />
<br />
<i>“RECOVERY”</i><br />
<br />
I underestimated how bad my body would feel. Not having had any heavy duty surgery since my daughter was born, I naively thought that normal activity could be resumed right away. Ice and Hydrocodone helped with pain, but not much. Then two days later, the pain lessened and fatigue set in. I walked for a mile the day after surgery, then gradually worked up to three miles running the week after. The jarring of running hurt the surgery site, but the discomfort got better. Cutting out cancer in a lumpectomy made rearranging chest muscles necessary, so they ached with movement.<br />
<br />
A week later, I got my bandaids off, which was a relief. It was weird to take showers and feel like the plastic film on my skin was getting water logged. The tissue was still swollen and achy, but the margins were clear. There were two lesions. Two lymph nodes were negative, which was a relief.<br />
<br />
<i>TAKEAWAYS FROM THE EXPERIENCE:</i><br />
<br />
1. Sometimes I have to accept help even if I don’t want it.<br />
<br />
2. General anesthesia messes up the body for weeks.<br />
<br />
3. Discomfort from slicing the body can last for months.<br />
<br />
4. I hate being a patient. Recovery is boring and painful.<br />
<br />
5. Even when I feel better, I still tire easily.<br />
<br />
6. Even when tired, it’s good to force my body to exercise, though not at the same levels pre-surgery.<br />
<br />
7. “Recovery” isn’t total recovery, but the fatigue and discomfort subside. Real recovery takes a lot longer.<br />
<br />
<i>NEXT: RADIATION</i>trijammerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15858283249053449598noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2182113704801393382.post-37043381486596165842020-02-09T12:29:00.000-08:002020-02-09T12:29:41.945-08:00Seeds of Death<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2sbU9LPWIaK7am87yHjkun4b0NemKtCJxJXFsKxFMSfW5Z3JoZAxvl1PyFbc4SCFVQuvCAIJpYGGKlhjJI34h6GVvHmcfOYrYzRmCTMvFloQTSYzeJmi5Ap44jm5c-erChtwNRg2Gb-D6/s1600/20200209_130917-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="332" height="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2sbU9LPWIaK7am87yHjkun4b0NemKtCJxJXFsKxFMSfW5Z3JoZAxvl1PyFbc4SCFVQuvCAIJpYGGKlhjJI34h6GVvHmcfOYrYzRmCTMvFloQTSYzeJmi5Ap44jm5c-erChtwNRg2Gb-D6/s200/20200209_130917-1.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seeds of Death</td></tr>
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<i>DIAGNOSIS</i><br />
<br />
Sometimes life is a body slam, coming out of nowhere. I was just going about my usual innocuous routine, when bam!, an event knocked the wind out of me.<br />
<br />
“It’s cancer,” the radiologist informed me after a biopsy.<br />
<br />
I really didn’t want to go to cancer land. It is an alien, dark, menacing place. Not the words I wanted to hear. Ever. <br />
<br />
The biopsy procedure had been unpleasant. Normally, I tried to avoid doctors and tests unless absolutely necessary. Now I was sucked into a situation with no control. Medical people lie that’s it’s only “little pinch,” or“it won’t hurt,.” The test was supposed more tolerable than in the past. As the radiologist, guided the needle through the tissue, I felt searing pain. My skin broke out in a rash. The ordeal made was tiring.<br />
<br />
I had never had this result before with the many mamograms, ultrasounds and biopsies I had had over the years. Biopsies had involved sticking a needle in the tissue, guided through mamography, and punching out a ribbon of flesh. The nagging thought in the back of my mind every time was maybe something is wrong, but it never was. Until now.<br />
<br />
I got a mamogram every year because my mother and sister had breast cancer and my father esophageal cancer. Still, I didn’t smoke or drink heavily like they had, so I assumed my healthier lifestyle might spare me. Or at least, I hoped it would. The results this time showed something suspicious and a biopsy was needed to see what it was. <br />
<br />
The cancer was small, slow growing and isolated, but still a seed of death. The radiologist said surgery and radiation was necessary, but probably not chemo. I was lucky in that regard.<br />
<br />
The cancer cells were the type that responded to hormones. This meant I had to give up hormone replacement. Hormones made me feel better, less depressed and have more energy. They made hot flashes disappear. Without drugs, the hot flashes came back, got more numerous and intense. I woke up several times at night drenched in sweat. The sense of well being was gone and I mourned the loss.<br />
<br />
It meant that Aromatase Inhibitors would be a suggested treatment. This drug sounded like a bad idea. A brief internet search revealed nasty side effects like joint pain and hot flashes, which I already had too much of. Maybe it would prevent recurrence of cancer in exchange for being miserable for five years. This could be a poor trade off, especially since I only had two tiny seeds of death.<br />
<br />
The next steps was a breast MRI and seeing a surgeon after the pathology report was done. MRI’s are claustrophobic and very noisy. This procedure required me to lay face down and not move. While it wasn’t physically uncomfortable, the confined space made me panicky. I had on headphones that faintly played music, except when the technician talked. The music wasn’t calming. I had a panic button to push, but the technician ignored it despite my numerous times that I pushed it. When the machine moved over me, and loudly banged continuously, I desperately wanted out and felt like I was suffocating. I kept telling myself that “it’s only temporary”, while hyperventilating the whole time. At least the result of that horrible experience showed that the cancer hadn’t spread.<br />
<br />
<i>WHAT THE HELL DOES IT ALL MEAN?</i><br />
<br />
I alternated between anxiety and depression, thinking about the unknown future. The surgery and treatments sounded painful, exhausting and. detrimental to my mental health, fitness and body. A side effect of radiation was fatigue and sometimes skin burns. Radiation was every weekday for a month. Slice and burn me in order to be cured? My routine would be disrupted and I had better things to do, like an upcoming ironman race and a trip to Maryland to see my daughter. <br />
<br />
My attitude might have been different if my cancer was more advanced, but it was early stage. I didn’t want weight gain, joint pain, fatigue or skin burn. Some of the treatments seemed like over-kill and the necessity of them was hard to accept. Modern medicine was my enemy more than the cancer.<br />
<br />
The whole situation felt surreal. Instead of being a healthy person, suddenly I was diseased. Normalcy had disappeared. It was hard to grasp the idea of being weak and vulnerable. <br />
<br />
I felt utterly alone. Who to tell and when was a dilemma, until I saw the surgeon and discussed a treatment plan. Giving someone bad news is a downer and rather awkward. Maybe they really didn’t want to know. The whole “you poor thing” was repulsive and I didn’t want the attention. Setting up the surgery could take a while. Why tell someone and let them worry a long time?<br />
<br />
Still, the knowledge that this drastic life changing event was a burden that I wanted to ease. The temptation was to tell someone, even if they didn’t want to know about it. I kept my mouth shut for a while, but it was difficult not to share the turmoil.<br />
<br />
Deep down, I knew that I would eventually be fine, but that the journey would challenging. Pain and discomfort awaited. The body assault loomed. <br />
<br />
<i>NEXT: SURGERY</i>trijammerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15858283249053449598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2182113704801393382.post-14135620143348843052019-12-15T13:48:00.000-08:002019-12-16T11:45:43.088-08:00Ironman Arizona Race Report<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUEoEO0BS75bRHgEZRjzBaXc6CyNgJRprPIiHxnSeHGsXBK23xzhDLt4R8NqAQVVITVX3UYoD9bfT-tyRZ0hRWo4Wj9Pb-oWJdu0I8oFhvJjBBwpENpNsokBpBQijoYR1TZ6CFzHO8rinU/s1600/IMG_9856.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUEoEO0BS75bRHgEZRjzBaXc6CyNgJRprPIiHxnSeHGsXBK23xzhDLt4R8NqAQVVITVX3UYoD9bfT-tyRZ0hRWo4Wj9Pb-oWJdu0I8oFhvJjBBwpENpNsokBpBQijoYR1TZ6CFzHO8rinU/s320/IMG_9856.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo courtesy of Camelback Coaching<br />
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<span style="text-align: center;">Racing an Ironman more than once is an exercise in denial. It took me five years to forget the trauma of Ironman Arizona in 2014 when the howling wind on the Beeline had made the 112 mile bike an exhausting, desperate exercise to finish in time. I got into transition with six seconds to spare, but had been so depleted that avoiding the run limits was impossible. The memory of riding down the Beeline as hard as I could as the sun was setting was burned into my brain. And yet I signed up again with the hope that this time would be different.</span><br />
<div>
<br />
Four years later, I knew the difficulty of the event, but had the hope that the end result would be better. The odds weren’t in my favor, being a slow swimmer and biker. Making the time cut offs was always a concern. This has been my dilemma forever.. Because of my lack of fast genes, training took longer and was more affected by wind, cold and hilly terrain. I had two Ironman finishes in the past, but more non-finishes. Yet I persisted in pursuing this folly over and over again.<br />
<br />
This time, just getting to the start line required overcoming obstacles, most of which were generated by my bike. A spoke broke, and the wheel went out of round and was ruined. My disintegrating bike seat had to be replaced and adjusting to the new one was difficult. If it wasn’t placed just right, my butt felt like it was sitting on rocks. The chafing was painful with the longer rides. Then the free hub body, a part which up until this point I didn’t know existed, decided to break down. This part allows the back wheel to coast. I chose the wrong bike shops to try to fix it. I nagged and nagged and finally they ordered the part after ignoring the bike for a week. This frustrating process of taking the bike to bike shops, only to not be fixed, took a month.<br />
<br />
A further obstacle was that I was diagnosed with breast cancer a month before the race. It is slow growing, small, and limited to one area, but it is still the big, scary “C”. It added to the stress of preparing for the race. I had to give up replacement hormones, which made me feel more tired and depressed. The evil specter of hot flashes came back with a vengeance. Theoretically, hormones are a banned substance in Ironman, but for a person in the back of the back of the pack, it didn’t seem like it should matter.<br />
<br />
Doubts assailed me. Would I be as strong or fast without drugs? Would the disease in my body cause me to fail somehow? Would I collapse or drown? It was hard enough to even finish under normal circumstances. When Ironman decided to shorten the swim/bike cut off two weeks before the race to ten hours/ten minutes, it was another blow. How the hell was that possible unless it was a very good day?<br />
<br />
With the commitment of all the time, money and effort put into preparing for this race, the only thing to do was to suck it up and try, with no assurance of success. Not starting was never an option.<br />
<br />
Race morning did not start well, with a late start because of the long half hour wait to get into the free parking garage. This left only had an hour to prepare. All my meticulous lists meant nothing. Equipment organized into bags required planning and endlessly obsessing about what to put in them and when to do so. I failed to put salt tablets and my more appealing food in the bike bag. I also didn’t get body marked. Rushing around is not conducive to clear thinking or memory.<br />
<br />
Due to my disorganization, I cut into the line of people to get into the water as late as 6:58 a.m.. Easing into the cold, murky water, the goal was to not to be swam over, since the faster swimmers started then. Being early gave me some leeway on the bike cut offs, which didn’t change no matter the actual start time.<br />
<br />
The temperature of choppy water was almost bearable and the body contact was minimal. My chest felt tight and it was hard to catch my breath for a half hour. Resting a lot was needed, which made me wonder about making the swim cut off. Since the water was never smooth, I swallowed more of Tempe Town Lake water, which was never good in any amount. I never panicked, but the experience made me anxious and uncomfortable.<br />
<br />
I blocked out the thought of the length of the swim. The chest tightness disappeared and I kept moving. The buildings on the south shore drifted by. It was surreal at times. The north shore marina looked like it was below the edge of the water, which was disorienting. The north shore tall electrical towers and grass hills came into sight. The sight of the last red turn buoy in the distance was a relief.<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div>
<div>
<br />
Towards the end, my foot/calf cramped intermittently, which is unpleasant when trying to avoid drowning. Inconveniently, the muscle locked exiting the lake, which caught the attention of medical volunteers. People on either side supported me as my numb feet weren’t working. They made me sit and drink broth for a while, which probably killed my chance for meeting the swim/bike cut off. My mind was dazed and my body cold, but I was not shivering. My swim time was about two hours.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A volunteer helped me dress in the transition tent. I changed my wet top and struggled to put on arm warmers and a jacket, still in a mental fog. I hobbled to the mount line and got on my bike.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The usual evil Beeline wind tunnel wasn’t too bad, but it seemed to pick up as the afternoon wore on. The cool breeze that slowed me down also probably kept me from being overheated. The lack of salt tablets weighed on me. A few were in my bento box, but not enough. Bananas made up for potassium. The aid station gels supplemented my merger supply of nutrition, but the strawberry-kiwi flavor tasted vile after a while. Even those were gone as the afternoon wore on.<br />
<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div>
<div>
On one of my loops, riding uphill, I saw a guy with a t-shirt that read “May I pray for you?” I am not religious, but thought, <i>yes. Yes, you may pray for me</i>, because the way this race and my life in general was going, I needed all the prayers, luck, good karma and anything else that I could get.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In that vein, this highway was a purgatory with the monotony of the scenery, the stinky garbage dump and the stress of trying to go fast enough. It was a lot of effort to even go slow up the hill. My legs turned as fast as they could and the loss of energy from not having enough salt tablets or palatable nutrition was a worry. I longed for fig bars and peanut butter Uncrustables sandwiches.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
My heart rate couldn’t be tracked, because my watch decided it had a low battery. I used perceived effort the whole race, which was basically a vague guess as to what my heart rate was. Normally, heart rate would tell me how much energy was being expended, which was necessary over a long distance. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I made the seventy-four mile, 3:10 p.m. cut off at Mill Avenue by 20 minutes by pedaling furiously down the road the second time. Small triumphs. At least I had that.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
By the third loop, the sun was low and the shadows long in the golden light. This was the dreaded near the end, try to beat the odds time. I had enough leeway to beat the 92 mile cut off, but it was close. I appreciated the presence of the cheering volunteers, but didn’t stop at the aid stations. They only had crap to offer anyway. I rounded the turn off and hustled down the Beeline with a close seven minutes to spare. The time crunch was manageable, but riding fast was necessary. Riders passed by going uphill. They were screwed and sadly, they were going to be stopped. A number of Ironman vehicles headed to the aid station to pick up the stragglers. I had eluded them.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A few of us, who had gotten past the 92 mile turn around, were still trying to finish. A number of them asked me what the final bike cut off was.<i> Like they didn’t know?</i> The limits were certainly burned in my brain. The group of us became comrades in arms, trying to get our slow asses back into transition, so that we could face the even more difficult feat of hauling our exhausted selves around the run course by midnight. I hope some of them made it. Unfortunately, someone crashed her bike and lay in an unmoving heap on the ground. The police were nearby and called an ambulance. She was only four miles from the end. This race can be cruel.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The sun was setting and it was almost dark by the finish of my ride about 5:31 p.m. Official time was eight hours, five minutes, but my Garmin said seven hours, fifty-two minutes. It didn’t matter because I should have finished earlier. Getting my compression socks on was time consuming. My nose was pouring snot. My body probably didn’t smell good. Mentally, I berated myself for moving slow, but part of me thought <i>who the hell cares and how was I going to be able to run?</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The 10 hour 10 minute swim/bike cut off was exceeded, especially with a 21 minute T1. They hadn’t stopped me, so maybe an unofficial finish was possible. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Less than six and half hours wasn’t a lot of time to get in the whole marathon. My goal all day was to get to this point, but the pain in my legs was excruciating and I was exhausted. Resorting to a walk/run forced me to run, but it wasn’t fast enough. My hopes of even finishing unofficially faded and my motivation was lacking at this point. I just wanted to stop, but kept moving with no attention to time. The mental toughness just wasn’t there. Even if I survived the 9:10 cut off, surviving the 20 mile one was unlikely. Running that far just to stop was unfathomable. .</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I passed someone leaning on a pole and sobbing. I could relate to what she was feeling. Everyone was in their own private struggle.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
People that I knew asked me how I was doing when I passed by. Encouragement from people I know or even random strangers is always good and appreciated, but my answer was “not so good”. Being cheerful took too much energy. I did try to thank the volunteers.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I encountered a man who said he was also on his first loop. He wasn’t moving much faster than I. We both had hope for a miracle that probably wouldn’t come.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My feet hurt so bad with every step, that I stopped, took my shoe off and rubbed my toe. It actually felt better, but getting the shoe back on was difficult. It was impossibly tight and my calf threatened to cramp.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
On I moved in the dark with the undead. The broth and coke from the aid stations weren’t the usual magic elixirs. <i>Can’t they have decent food?</i> Potatoes would be good. This stuff was unappetizing. I swallowed salt tablets and forced myself to eat some of my gels, which by this point were disgusting.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Around 8:30 p.m., I made a half-hearted effort to move faster to beat the 9:10 p.m.cut off. Cruelly, the turn off to the finish line beckoned, which was now out of reach. I wanted the pain to end and it was a battle not to quit. A guy on a bike encouraged me to run harder. Then another man by an aid station also told me to get moving. He was at the last race that I didn’t finish. I ran without walking, but it was too late. The rest of the way was blocked with a fence. The race was over. Could mile 20 have been possible with a harder push? The thought will haunt me until the next race, if it ever comes.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This race has turned into seeing how far I can go rather than finishing. In a way, that’s okay, but not as fun and it leaves me with an empty feeling. I kept thinking that I am never doing this again during the swim, but who knows?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Things that learned from doing this race:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I can still train and “race” the swim and the bike even at my age and manage to escape injury. The times for both haven’t changed that much since 2014. The run was another matter. I wasn’t injured, like in 2014, but it still crushed me.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The distances for the swim, bike and run are still absolutely awful to train and race.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The rolling start sucks. In the past to it was possible to hang out in the back with the mass start and actually get a warm up swimming to the start line. This time, I had to jump into line way before the time that I would seeded myself for, in order to beat the bike cut offs. No warm up was possible. The water was choppy the entire swim because everyone in the world was passing me. However, a lot physical contact could still be avoided.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Cold water is still difficult to tolerate. The temperature was 61-63 degrees. The result was foot/calf cramps and not being able to catch my breath for the first 1000 yards. Getting out of the water was like being in shock, with a mental haze and lack of coordination. The swim probably affected the whole race.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The bike is still a struggle to finish in time, howling wind or not. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The pain of the run sapped my motivation and it was as much a mental failure as a physical one. Ten years ago, it wasn’t so difficult, but the assumption that it would be that way again this time was wrong.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I am still stupid enough to do this again, despite my failings. The process of training is horrible, but I like the feeling of being stronger and conquering the distance. The hope of finishing down a brightly lit chute, high fiving, is still there, even if getting there is unlikely. Sharing the bond of running in the dark with a community of fellow sufferers is still a draw, though I don’t know why. The experience was interesting in an excruciating sort of way. Maybe it’s the attempt to meet the physical and mental challenge of doing something difficult. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Results-wise, the race was a failure if success is measured by finishing. Process-wise, even if I fell short, I did the best I could with my physical limitations and mechanical problems. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
All I know is that this race is easy compared to what I am facing next, fighting cancer and facing the god awful treatments. It is like being on the edge of a cliff wondering If I am going to fall into a dark hole. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOhrnx1wAhtL2g0SCpei4ewKi9yjw6PZLZwcfz5cUcaxTJxNsdqWSXBjjBpMXFayEXBQEL8QIFuFHqAiWHaLkmG680IHEdTSrdI8NN4BU-tCFKBttnyNMRqG90WfYyAwVMpmp1J7sxBcKc/s1600/IMAZ+swim.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOhrnx1wAhtL2g0SCpei4ewKi9yjw6PZLZwcfz5cUcaxTJxNsdqWSXBjjBpMXFayEXBQEL8QIFuFHqAiWHaLkmG680IHEdTSrdI8NN4BU-tCFKBttnyNMRqG90WfYyAwVMpmp1J7sxBcKc/s320/IMAZ+swim.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy of One Mulisport. I am NOT having fun.</td></tr>
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trijammerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15858283249053449598noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2182113704801393382.post-3380122882334963052019-09-24T21:01:00.000-07:002019-09-25T16:36:32.195-07:00Chula Vista Half Ironman Race Report<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Since I had foolishly signed up for Ironman Arizona, I thought half ironman would be a good reminder why it was a bad idea to do long course. I don’t know what came over me to punish myself this year other than an urge to see if I could actually still do it. The rational side of my brain had no part in this bad decision.<br />
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My long course experience has not gone well the past few years. My most recent half ironman was incomplete due to a run injury. Two years before, one was cancelled because of a forest fire. The next had a run in ninety degree heat, whic resulted in heat exhaustion. I celebrated the “finish” with a session in the med tent hooked up to an I.V. The longer the race, the more of a crap shoot it is. My days of having good races seemed to be over. Maybe my luck would improve.<br />
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The Ironman branded halfs didn’t appeal to me, being expensive, too hard or far away, so I chose an independent one in San Diego. It had calm sea water, which made for a faster swim and the bike and run seemed flat. Southern California races are usually well organized, scenic, have good weather and food, and usually a nice body of water to swim in.<br />
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As it turned out, this race was aptly named, with the challenge being just getting to the starting line.<br />
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Gremlins have taken over my bike this year. They made me run into a fence for no apparent reason while riding, thereby breaking the front wheel spoke. That I had a momentary brain freeze had nothing to do with it. The wheel was bent out of round, which was bad for a normally round object. I replaced it, which was not an easy task, because the manufacturer relegated a wheel more than five years old to the trash heap. Luckily E-bay had it.<br />
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Then on the Wednesday before the race, while riding my bike slowly uphill, the derailleur snapped off, lodged in the wheel and locked it up. At a fast speed, it could have been a serious crash. What the hell. I thought, I am f##ked. I stared at it in disbelief. This race might not happen. Luckily, a kind soul, who was an ultrarunner of course, drove me back to my car. Walking three miles in my bike shoes would have been unpleasant.<br />
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I considered my options. Maybe use my old road bike? But only three of the fifteen gears worked. Maybe it could be used to hobble through a shorter race, but riding it 56 miles was unfathomable.<br />
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I took the damaged bike to a shop, but they couldn’t get it repaired in time. Nor could they repair the road bike. Rental was a possibility, though the prospect of getting one right before a race seemed remote. The three speed was brought on the trip as back up. At least it had wheels.<br />
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The problem with doing a race in California is the drive there. I usually take I-10, but this trip required I-8, a more southerly route that grazed the northern border of Mexico. Both roads rival each other in sheer monotony. I don’t mind driving through the remote deserts of Arizona, but the monotonous soul sucking California deserts induce desperation to be ANYWHERE ELSE, but this desolate, heat-blasted nothingness. <i>Why do people even live here?</i> The 112 degree temperature didn’t help.<br />
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The sand dunes turned into flat vistas of hell. It was like Midwest landscape tedium without the corn fields. The miles rolled on, and my brain felt like it was melting. I passed turn offs to Mexico and couldn’t imagine using them. Was there more of this, only Mexico? Finally, I left the barren landscape and climbed into the mountains. The air turned blissfully cooler.<br />
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Driving south towards Chula Vista involved the gauntlet of jammed freeway traffic. This was inevitable, since no drive in southern California on a weekday could avoid the millions of cars trying to be in the same road all at once. After forever, I got to my hotel.<br />
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As soon as I got settled, I called a bike shop. They had a bike and the race was possibly saved, but I had to drive up to San Diego tomorrow. Another hoop to jump through.<br />
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As I unpacked, I discovered that I didn’t bring the filter basket for my coffee maker. This was ghastly. The room didn’t have a coffee maker and I doubted that the hotel would have coffee available race morning at O’dark thirty. <i>Arghhh!</i> Another problem.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The water in this picture looks deceptively clean.<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Before I left to go to get the bike the next day, I found out that the swim was cancelled. I didn’t know if I was disappointed, because at the race site, the water looked scuzzy with some unidentifiable white foamy substance at the shore. I hate swimming, but a duathlon that length would hurt.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I drove up the spaghetti of freeways and got my bike. It kind of fit me. The seat pinched my nether region, the wheels weren’t as light as my own bike’s and it had no bottle holder. It would do, though, since I had no viable alternatives.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The bike shop guy had said that this race was more likely to have the swim be cancelled due to high bacteria count, since it wasn’t near the bay inlet. Ships also spew toxic substances into the water. This is nice to knowl. And I thought our local Tempe Town Lake was bad.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Instead of a swim, the first run would be a 5k. Previous half iron duathlon experience showed how painful they could be. Near the end my feet would scream in agony to stop. My longest training run had been nine miles and this would be sixteen total. I wasn't really trained for this.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Race morning arrived and my goal was survival, so I planned to run much slower than a stand alone 5k. When I had signed up, a wisp of faint hope was there of actually doing well. Now the goal was just finishing and that in itself seemed difficult.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">We had a time trial start, with staggered start times. I positioned myself near the back. This was going to be a long day. As I ran, I chatted with someone who was moving as slowly as I was. At mile two I tripped on the uneven pavement and fell hard. My knee was scraped and bloody with throbbing pain, with seventy more miles to go. My palms, trying to break the fall were also abraded. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I cursed my clumsiness and hobbled on, embarrassed. I finished, and in transition wiped my knee off with a tiny alcohol swab useless to handle the large wound. It didn’t look like it needed stitches, at least. The blood continued to drip down my leg. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">How the bike portion on a rental bike would be was unknown. The route was a fourteen mile loop done four times with fifteen turn-arounds. This sounded tedious. The race website’s “Map My Ride” graph lied that the first seven miles had a gain of 197 feet. On this basis, I thought it would be flat.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">For such a compact bike course, it wasn’t too crowded, and a USAT official actually monitored illegal drafting. My time on each loop was consistently an hour which was good enough to avoid cut offs. The ride was steady and not particularly fast.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">For a state that worships freeways, this city had some truly awful roads. One section was so rough that race organizers had put pads over it, with a guy stationed at the spot to tell riders to be careful. As if a rider wouldn’t notice the asphalt moguls. It wouldn’t do if a rider was violently thrown off their bike. Between the bumpy road jarring my scraped hands on the handlebars and my uncomfortable seat jabbing into me, this section was excruciating.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">In contrast, the section with three turn-arounds had blissfully smooth pavement. Normally, all the turning would be annoying. The hills were work, but better than being jolted around on a rough road.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Since, the bike didn’t quite fit me, my right knee, without the wound, hurt while climbing. The other knee throbbed a little and dripped blood, but was otherwise fine. The only way to finish this ride and end the discomfort was to keep moving forward.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">After three hours, I had to stop for some more water before the last lap. The riders were mostly gone and the loops seemed to last forever. The familiar “last rider” anxiety crept in with few people to follow. Was I ever going to finish? Was I lost? The route was well marked, but I slowly got nowhere and felt off course. Finally, a bunch of kids passed me in their race, which indicated that the end was near.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The bike was much hillier than the website suggested. My three speed would have been inadequate. My Garmin came out with a total gain of 1542 feet. This isn’t terrible for a half, with nice rolling hills, but it was unexpected climbing. Map My Ride lied.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Pulling off this leg seemed like a miracle with all the bike issues. I had survived without crashing, a mechanical problem or injury. It was a relief to finish.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I changed into my running shoes and ignored my knee with the dried red stripes of blood running down my leg. The start of the first loop felt like hell because of lack of energy and dead muscles that didn’t want to move. I paid to do this, right? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The weather was a bit warm, even with low seventies, but nothing like Arizona, where the heat would have melted me into a smoking puddle of flesh. I poured water on myself. A refreshing cool sea breeze blew. My legs were leaden and I dreaded the thought of 13.1 mile run. Then I told my mind to shut up in order to keep my sanity At previous long races, my mental state at this point in a long race was a black hole of fatigue and despair. My old friend self-doubt had come to visit. Would I ever finish? Would I make the cut offs? Would this ever end?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The remedy to stifle the mental demons was stuffing gels and salt tablets down my mouth, though I wasn’t hungry, in hopes that they would revive me. Luckily, the aid stations had coke and ice, which are magical elixirs. The sugar in coke is an energy boost. Ice water is the only thing that helps with dehydration in a long, hard race. One aid station was out, which made me cranky, a dangerous mood for anyone that gets in my way.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">A fast run was unlikely on the three loop half marathon death march. The route went through the park and followed the edge of the marina. The bike path portion out and back had an industrial feel and closed in space, even though the adjoining cement walls were graced with murals. Missing the proper turn around was a worry, since more than one race had different ones, but I managed not to screw up the directions. The last two loops felt a little better than the first. The last loop had a 2:00 p.m. cut off for starting it, so it was motivation to push through. Time was the enemy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">My bloody knee probably attracted attention because people kept asking me if I was alright. One volunteer asked about needing medical attention and I said “later.” She said “of course”, probably thinking what a crazy person. Random strangers would cheer me, maybe out of sympathy. I never get this much attention at Arizona races with an intact knee. My new friend asked “no more falls?" The back of the pack has a camaraderie. It can get lonely when most people have finished, so friendly words of encouragement from anybody helps.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Finally after almost eight hours, I finished in 7:49. Not quite dead last, but an actual official finish, which had eluded me last year. On a rental bike with a bloody knee. Overcoming fatigue, pain, dehydration, despair, anxiety and equipment failure is rewarding in its own strange way. It’s a way of shaking my fist at the universe that insists on throwing obstacles in my way.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I had escaped failure, despite the bike gremlins and lack of coffee. Maybe my luck had changed. Now if my bike would only stop falling apart.</span></div>
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trijammerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15858283249053449598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2182113704801393382.post-2748891672555155662019-05-15T20:33:00.001-07:002019-05-15T20:33:58.389-07:00Antelope Canyon Race Report<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Seeing a slot canyon had been something that I always wanted to do. Social media is full of photos of these remarkable geologic formations. I am lucky enough to live in a state that has them. But like many of my goals, I think about them, but don’t act on them. Then depression sets in because I am bored. Signing up for a trail half marathon would break me out of my inertia.<br />
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New places are great to see, but the planning, expense, and getting there is not. Travel is stressful and sometimes doesn’t seem worth it. Endless hours are required to figure out what to do with the cat, how to get there, where to eat, where to stay and what to bring. Packing takes forever. I lack someone to travel with and I drive alone, eat alone and deal with unplanned obstacles alone. Usually, I am happy afterwards, when the memory of all the hassle fades.<br />
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I had never had the urge to run a trail half marathon before, because training would entail running on trails for two hours or more. It’s exhausting with the hills, irregular terrain and the rocks waiting to trip me. My pace is slow as hell, my legs get tired and a tiny rock can catch my toe and violently send me slamming into the ground. The bruises take weeks or even months to heal. Two falls in the past had required stitches in my knees. Yet I still do this foolishness.<br />
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The finish time cut off was a concerned. We had five hours to be done. When I signed up a year ahead of time, I was injured and hobbling through my runs. Gradually, it seemed possible after some long runs. My joints still hurt, but the ache was manageable. The prospect of accomplishing a trail run of this distance was an intriguing challenge.<br />
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The race information claimed that the terrain was smooth singletrack with rolling hills and about 900 feet of elevation gain. That amount of climbing was more than the usual pavement half marathon, but I had done it before. The other distances of 100 miles, 50 miles and 55k had “sandy doubletrack.” I hoped that the half marathon didn’t have sand, but this hope would be dashed. The area was a sand farm, with wind and water breeding deep pockets of it from the rocks.<br />
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The half marathon route didn’t include the scenic features of the other routes like slot canyons, but it did have views of the Colorado River and Lake Powell. Canyons are best viewed at a leisurely pace, anyway. Any distance other than thirteen miles was impossible to me, because suffering that much was not appealing.<br />
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The drive north was about four and a half hours, made more boring because my phone would quit playing music or play the same song over and over in the remote regions of the reservation. Why doesn’t anyone use MP3 players anymore? I longed for one because this stupid phone failed to entertain me. The local Navajo radio stations were not likely to offer alternative rock music.<br />
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I worried about and felt guilty about leaving my needy cat with a new sitter. She would meow piteously and no one would serve her every want. She would have no ice in her water, be alone and hate it. She couldn’t go outside and drink water out of the dirty plastic container that I leave for the birds. She had to cuddle.<br />
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My usual fear of my old car breaking down on a road trip wasn’t an issue because I had just invested lots of money replacing the struts, whatever they were. The weather was good and the traffic light with few annoying drivers. Late in the afternoon, the clouds took on colors of the rocky sandstone.<br />
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When I arrived in Page, my hotel looked like it was built recently. It was more upscale than the usual cheap Flagstaff hotels that I stay in. The room had a microwave and refrigerator, as advertised. It even had a real coffee maker. I didn’t need mine, although I still needed real coffee grounds because hotel coffee everywhere is unacceptably watery and weak.<br />
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As a bonus, the hotel was a quarter mile from a scenic view, oddly enough called “Scenic View”. The gleaming ribbon of the river could be seen hundreds of feet below and the Lake Powell Dam was to the north. I walked down and took pictures in the waning light. The rocks had a golden glow.</div>
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Going out to find a restaurant, I got lost and was headed on the way to Utah. I turned around and went out to a tavern. I had a real nice dark beer that seemed stronger than the five percent alcohol they said it was. This small town maybe wasn’t so bad if it had decent beer.</div>
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The next morning was the Lower Antelope slot canyon tour starting from a nondescript building south of town. The entrance was a short walking distance to the canyon, and required a climb down a steep ladder. The flowing rock formations were mesmerizing, catching the light with different flowing shapes. My phone camera wasn’t capturing the light well, but Photoshop would make up for its failings. The guide noted areas that were frequently photographed and would hold our phone cameras in the same spot. He pointed out formations that looked like animals or people. It was fascinating.</div>
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Occasionally, the wind would blow sand down the canyon. Sand rain was unexpected. The guide said that animals sometimes fall into the canyon as well. Hopefully, it wouldn’t rain random creatures as well. Fishing a cow out of this hole must be a feat.</div>
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After an hour, we came out. The ordinary surface concealed the fairy land of rock below. </div>
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The next day, I got up early to get to the race. Finding the entrance in the dark was a concern because it was hard to find in the daytime, but they had police cars and a guy with a light. It was a chilly 43 degrees. At least it wasn’t windy. When the sun rose, the distant plateau turned pink. I jogged to warm up to be able to function and stave off the cold. Once the sun came out, it would be much warmer, so I had to decide what to wear to avoid having to carry for thirteen miles. Since it was going to be a sunny day, I erred on the side of having less on.</div>
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The first 2.2 miles were a shock, edging on despair. The soul sucking loose sand was like running on a beach, but without the joy. The route culminated in a steep uphill to the first aid station. Once on the plateau, the path was firmer, which was good because thirteen miles of sand was intolerable. The high desert plain stretched a long ways below. I took off my over shirt, then my bike arm sleeves. Just the beginning, and already I thought this is really hard. The rolling terrain took a hard effort to run on.</div>
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The path narrowed and runners clogged the way. I had to slow down even more, if that was even possible. Most of the miles were about 14-15 minutes. Not exactly blazing, but my expectations were low. The breeze was cold and I put back on my over shirt. It stayed on the rest of the race.</div>
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At mile 5.5 the path narrowed more. It was little defense against a sheer, bare, enormous drop off. The slope had little to stop a person who stumbled or slipped. A women in front of me freaked out. A nice guy guided her forward. I nervously stepped carefully as it looked like 500-1000 feet to the bottom.</div>
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The path finally didn’t look like imminent death and I had to stop and quickly take pictures. Time was relentlessly passing. The blue ribbon of the river was below.<br />
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The numerous selfie-takers were irritating, though they stayed out of my way. They would pass me, then slow down to take pictures. Stopping and starting for thirteen miles was idiotic. It was a struggle just to go at a slow, steady pace.<br />
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My energy flagged until the 7.2 mile aid station. I refilled my water bottle and ate one of my last remaining Powerbar gels. They aren’t made anymore, and Gu gels just doesn’t seem as energizing. Running out of water worried me, since a twelve ounce bottle only lasted me about an hour, but the day was cool enough not require constantly sucking down water.<br />
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Down a hill, and then a four lane street had to be crossed with no light or crosswalk. We were on our own. The cars stopped, but I wondered if they ever didn’t.<br />
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At some point, I realized that my shoes were full of sand. Taking them off and dumping the sand out was too much effort. My toenails would pay for it later turning colorful shades of purple and red..<br />
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I got a second wind. This part of the course was suburban boring, passing by a golf course. This was exciting new territory after nine miles–the longest ever trail run, training or racing. So far, I was surviving and didn’t feel terrible.<br />
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I chatted with a guy who followed me. This was his first race at this distance, trail or pavement. This was ill-advised , but I can’t judge, having done stupid things as well. Most of the population thought any running was crazy, but a small portion of us thought doing physically hard stuff was “fun.” Trail running, though, was a whole new level of insanity.<br />
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The terrain reminded me of Clay Pits in McDowell Mountain Park. The ground was sun-baked, hard-packed bare dirt and fairly smooth, which was fine. The evil sand awaited again.<br />
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We had to cross the same street again. It was un-nerving.<br />
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The last aid station was at mile 12.6. The guy following me passed, but it didn’t matter since this race was mere survival and not a competition. With more water, I faced my doom.</div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Running down the hill was fun, like a giant sand dune from my Midwestern childhood. Tripping wouldn’t matter because the sand was so soft. The fun soon turned into misery, with rolling hills of hell. Running turned into mostly walking because I had nothing left. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The final section to the finish line had a metal ramp, which required a climb up a rocky hill to get to. Are you kidding me? Around the big rock was the finish line. What a relief. I had made it. Total time was 3:41, though that includes stopping at aid stations and taking pictures. I probably actually ran about 3:25. The Wildflower half iron run was about a thousand feet, but none of my other half marathons have come close to that amount of climbing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Though a trail half marathon is relatively short for ultras, it was a whole different animal than shorter trail runs. It was mostly endurance and not speed. The distance was not easy, but the difficulty still surprised me. The 4,000 feet elevation and the very dry climate might have had an effect. The weather was cool enough not to over heat, but strangely chilled me for the rest of the day. This is unusual for a pure running race, especially in Phoenix.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The better runners probably blasted through the sand, but to me it very difficult. It was 3.3 total grinding miles, with the start being 2.2 and the end being 1.2. It was incomprehensible to face that after doing a longer distance. I would cry. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">In the end, despite the stress and hassle, it was unique to run in this strange, austere landscape of rocks, sand, plateaus and river. Discomfort can bring happiness. I saw a slot canyon, Horseshoe Bend and ran a trail marathon. My legs hurt but my usual fog of depression lifted. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"> I might even do another half trail marathon, though not if it has a lot of rocks. Or sand. Or hills.</span></div>
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trijammerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15858283249053449598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2182113704801393382.post-1612458385958314342019-01-13T10:54:00.000-08:002019-01-13T10:54:21.091-08:00Rockhopper Xterra Race Report<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLxCAI1QpZWU_4pxiAgalInrx8pdWXqrYHIbRM93CiCK2_KpD7vP2etIHT12I9xLluwcJLsToF1d3XmBDW7X20MYnkNQujjMtM402g-9IdxNp7Vp0_lvnlquMcBFcSV_C9B8Qu0GyL_GUK/s1600/20181014_063212.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLxCAI1QpZWU_4pxiAgalInrx8pdWXqrYHIbRM93CiCK2_KpD7vP2etIHT12I9xLluwcJLsToF1d3XmBDW7X20MYnkNQujjMtM402g-9IdxNp7Vp0_lvnlquMcBFcSV_C9B8Qu0GyL_GUK/s320/20181014_063212.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No swim for us. Just as well.</td></tr>
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Mountain biking is fun, but it’s difficult; a strenuous exercise in avoiding bodily injury. An off road triathlon with swimming and trail running added in is even more intimidating. All those rocks waiting to trip me or crash my bike. I signed up for an Xterra in Papago Park, but Mother Nature decided to run amuck in October and open the spigots. Torrential rain had come last Sunday with a few monumental pours during the week.<br />
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The day before the race was also stormy. The swim was cancelled due to fears that a swimmer would pick up some sort of disease in Tempe Town Lake from the bacteria floating downstream.<br />
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This was better than not having the race at all, but it was disruptive because I had trained for the swim and now wouldn’t get to do it. It was the last triathlon of the season and no swim was disappointing even though I hate it. I never said I was logical.<br />
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I was stressed and had my usual pre-race lethargy, not feeling up to exertion that it entailed. Papago Park is rocky and eroded with loose dirt and had a big hill that I could never climb on the bike.<br />
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We would do the run loop twice, which meant more trail running. I worried that all the rain might have eroded the routes and made them slippery.<br />
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I visualized my bike covered in sticky mud and putting the dirty thing into my car afterwards. A rainy race is ugly. It takes forever to get slimy mud off of a bike, because wet desert dirt has a special greasy quality.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No. Please, no.</td></tr>
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At the site, all the flooding on the banks of Tempe Town Lake surprised me. Water totally submerged the swim ramp. Transition had a vast puddle in front of it, but luckily, had enough dry area to walk around it. The sandy ground avoided the prospect of tromping through sticky mud.</div>
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I got my stuff organized and did a warm up run. Always on the lookout for birds, I spotted a big Harris’s Hawk that sat on a pole. The big guy was not impressed with me. There were also Great Blue Herons and Cormorants flying over the lake. The place was a virtual bird airport.</div>
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We started and of course everyone ran ahead of me. My legs didn’t want to move fast, weighted down with early morning fatigue. The hawk was still there, watching us fools. </div>
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One section required scrambling up boulders. Where the hell did that come from? I had done this race before, but I didn’t remember that absurdity. </div>
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The trails didn’t seem particularly wet or muddy, except in a few instances. The total distance was 2.56 miles. I was the last finisher at thirty-four minutes.</div>
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I had bike anxiety, doubting my ability to to deal with the terrain. Rocks. So many rocks. Though mountain biking is enjoyable, the fear of bodily injury is always there. The ground can shift under the wheels and requires finesse and strength to stay upright. Half a mile in, the bike slipped on a rough section of rocks and I fell hard on my butt. Ouch. Of course a volunteer watched. I got up, embarrassed, and continued. </div>
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The hills were a challenge that I struggled to descend, lacking the nerve and skill. I walked my bike down the “Steps”, a series of death ledges on a steep slope. I have never figured how to descend it on the bike without killing myself.</div>
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I walked up more climbs, not having enough engine to ascend them. My legs couldn’t pedal hard enough not to tip over. It was discouraging, especially since I was last on the run and behind already. A number of faster cyclists lapped me. </div>
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The weather was still fairly cool, but I drank a lot of water as my throat as dry as the desert air. My legs were tired from the run, and not swimming first made the bike a lot tougher. The first lap was about fifty minutes, which was about what it was the last time I did this race. </div>
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The second lap went better. I biked up climbs that I had previously walked. Fewer people tried to pass me, so I didn’t have to stop for them. Fatigue made me less cautious. My mind tried to fight off being discouraged. At least I now knew the obstacles on the trail. Most people were done with the bike, but a few stragglers were out there. Maybe I would not be last on the bike.</div>
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I was almost done with the last loop when I miscalculated a line, slipped off the bike, and veered into a Creosote bush, which stopped my momentum. I scratched my ankle, but managed to stay upright. It could have been worse with all the prickly plants around. Cactus needles are not fun to dig out of flesh. My legs were pretty trashed and banged up. My mind continued to argue with me. How the hell was I going to run? Can I quit now? I was really thirsty.</div>
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I got near transition and of course everyone was milling around because they were done. This was irritating. I changed shoes, racked my bike and took off for the second run. Total bike time was 1:40 on my watch, which didn’t seem that bad even though it felt like forever. Xterra miles are longer than normal miles.</div>
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The hawk was gone from its perch. It was probably fed up with all this commotion and was off to catch some live, bloody prey. </div>
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Just off the bike, the run felt bad--as in my legs cried to be put out of their misery. Gel and salt tablets staved off death. Late in a race, when most people are done, my mind devises strategies to salvage my ego. The course still had some stragglers, so I could pass them and not be last. Being last is a common occurrence for me in Xterra races.</div>
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The terrain wasn’t any easier the second time, but I made peace with it. No swim made the total run mileage longer than usual and harder physically. In the last, flat part of the course, I picked up speed and managed to run a minute faster than the first run. Time for the whole race was 3:04. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs7FO_pNIkHCw2AYBEmx8RzkkTNhOmOCcOkPxY58r-ICCCw01GcTDJoW2vMSJjkKE1rfpyYqnyqfz9vx6XJTS1Uluj9MshljsLh7q6W5QprWVfc5Tc6mjmKHlyJNEHt5HRfy2MmWml9pbl/s1600/20181014_063231.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs7FO_pNIkHCw2AYBEmx8RzkkTNhOmOCcOkPxY58r-ICCCw01GcTDJoW2vMSJjkKE1rfpyYqnyqfz9vx6XJTS1Uluj9MshljsLh7q6W5QprWVfc5Tc6mjmKHlyJNEHt5HRfy2MmWml9pbl/s320/20181014_063231.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A little more lake than we needed.</td></tr>
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</div>
trijammerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15858283249053449598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2182113704801393382.post-69391460730531909012018-09-30T11:53:00.000-07:002018-09-30T11:53:58.770-07:00Mountain Man Olympic Triathlon Race Report<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKC2xtHvImf7D_RKoZdwrX3yRz4rhASJhzMiTY-0jmXpXbaOPIGMfQaxhImpUMXd-XPuXtGTmbOloJN26m-5ZGQLJxKqtfy89b8Vz_kf1RWGk1GljHUCdxtghyphenhyphenmlyJRjl2wPY6mCIqzZpo/s1600/20180930_110356.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="812" data-original-width="1600" height="162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKC2xtHvImf7D_RKoZdwrX3yRz4rhASJhzMiTY-0jmXpXbaOPIGMfQaxhImpUMXd-XPuXtGTmbOloJN26m-5ZGQLJxKqtfy89b8Vz_kf1RWGk1GljHUCdxtghyphenhyphenmlyJRjl2wPY6mCIqzZpo/s320/20180930_110356.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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In the hellhole otherwise known as Phoenix, by the time August has come around, life has lost its meaning and existence takes too much effort. I signed up for this Flagstaff triathlon race to get out of Phoenix and to break up the unbearableness of summer. I needed a reason to get off my ass and train in ninety degree heat. The distraction would keep me from thinking dark thoughts about what life would be like without air conditioning in humid, hundred plus degree temperature.<br />
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I had done this race eight times, so I knew the suffering that was involved. At 7,000 feet, the body lacked oxygen. More effort was required to move; and the movement was slower. The hills that would have been merely rolling at sea level became the Swiss Alps at altitude. It’s still arid and just being outside sucks the moisture out of my body. But the pine trees, lake, sunflowers and mountains were nice scenery and a change from rocks, dust and cacti.<br />
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I chose the Olympic length because the half iron distance was unfathomable. Nobody but the crazy, fast people or clueless did it. Running the half marathon run alone along the road while seeing everyone drive by, who had already finished, would suck. Running up and down a steep hill, then running another seven miles would be torture. Also, who the hell would want to swim another five hundred yards in the brown sludge of Lake Mary? And bike 56 miles? The Olympic was enough pain for one day.<br />
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I drove up to Flagstaff, turning onto Lake Mary Road. Near the race site, I passed by a bunch of people looking at deer or elk. This amused me because I was sure the animals had no clue why they were being gawked at. They probably thought why are all these weird humans looking at me?<br />
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Just as I got the packet pickup location, a large black cloud appeared. Then it started pouring and lightning flashed. It was wiser to stay in the car until the prospect of electrocution and getting drenched was over with.<br />
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I like Flagstaff, but it is a pain to drive in with the hordes of tourists. I got dinner, then walked around and sat at Heritage Square for a while. There weren’t musicians playing yet, but people were hanging around and games were set up for children. I like the vibe of this town, like an Arizona hippie version of San Francisco in the sixties. Even the homeless are laid back. One dude tried to sell me a beach cruiser. He had just cleaned the bike and seemed relatively mentally stable. As if I had room in my Corolla for two bikes.<br />
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I got back to the hotel and did race prep. I hated stressing about a race. I had to get up at 3:30, so I was worried about getting everything ready. Plus I was concerned about my emotionally needy cat being alone. She expected to be waited on and no one was there. She was probably crying piteously. I realized I had forgotten to bring my race belt, which is something I had never forgot before. This was disturbing. What was wrong with my mind?<br />
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I went to bed, but kept waking up every hour. A distant train blew its horn. The A.C. made weird noises. The room was warm even with it on. Sleep does not come easily and altitude makes it worse. I must need actual oxygen.<br />
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At zero dark thirty, I got ready and stepped outside. The car didn’t have dew on it, which was a good sign, because I wasn’t sure how to get rid of it. Dew is an alien substance in the desert. I packed everything up and drove to the race site. When I got near the lake, the road had foggy patches. Some of them were quite dense, which made the road hard to see. It made me nervous. Go away fog, I don’t need you. I had to look for a parking spot in the dark and mist. I found the one I was looking for even though it was half a mile away. I couldn’t deal with the whole dark and not seeing and parking thing.<br />
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The sky lightened, revealing that Lake Mary had dense fog on it. I really didn’t want to swim in it, wandering aimlessly, with no idea where to go. I have visions of the Lake Tahoe swim, where the buoys were obscured by fog in the 32 degree air.<br />
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They made us go down to the dock at the scheduled time, then wait forty-five minutes. This was a first for me–a fog delay for an Arizona race. The long line of mist parallel to the shore slowly retreated. Hurry up, already!<br />
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I was supposed to start at 6:35, but didn’t begin until 7:20. At least by then we could see the buoys. I walked down the ramp and stepped through the muck to get to deeper water. The horn sounded and I swam cautiously. The possibility of a panic attack is always present, so I never rush when I start. Hyperventilating in the middle of a high altitude lake is best avoided because it is particularly unpleasant. I staved off breathlessness, but felt uncomfortable at times and stopped to rest occasionally.<br />
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Once in a while the smell of diesel gasoline and sewage was in the brown water. I tried to keep a steady pace. The water was fairly smooth but the surface in the last fifty yards was choppy. What a relief it was to get out. The swim took me 43:50. This was a little better time than two years ago. At least the swimming time didn’t change much over the years unlike the bike and run, which had gone to crap.<br />
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I had failed to take into account the location of the toilets when I set up my bike, so I had to run a little farther to use one. I really had to pee, unlike everyone else who had already urinated in the lake. The toilets were always inconveniently located outside of transition, which wasted more time.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTXeupTPuzL7XrAg6zWsL4efWRcqJaQsPR4sjsihnYjRohszx_scw7U33hpOU3eIvQbBEhNuFGe7zJonmttzYNyq8qZePJ7CVHwD9tuSnOMt2iWudkNly-t9pIWBIBaXTQ7FhRGY-e0p0f/s1600/20180818_151218-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTXeupTPuzL7XrAg6zWsL4efWRcqJaQsPR4sjsihnYjRohszx_scw7U33hpOU3eIvQbBEhNuFGe7zJonmttzYNyq8qZePJ7CVHwD9tuSnOMt2iWudkNly-t9pIWBIBaXTQ7FhRGY-e0p0f/s200/20180818_151218-1.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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On the ride start, I was extra hungry, since the to wait to swim was so long. The weather felt cool until the hill climbs. With the sun out, it was hot. The bike was hard work just to go slow. It always seems like it should be easier than it really is, leading to a feeling of inadequacy. Why can’t I go faster? The hills didn’t look all that steep until they were ridden. Once in a while a chickadee or goldfinches would call out. I liked to answer them. I didn’t know if they answered back, but it kept my mind off the pain. The scenery was pretty with the pine trees, blue sky and puffy white clouds, mountains and lakes. Not as many wildflowers were blooming, though, due to lack of rain. </div>
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On my last eight miles, I saw the first and second place male go by for the half iron. That was rather humbling, since it is twice the distance that I was doing. I passed three people, so at least I wasn’t dead last. This ride was painful by now and I wanted it to be over with so I could do an even more painful run. Bike time was 1:42.</div>
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By the time of the run, when everyone else was done, it was heating up and I was tired and thirsty. My water was lukewarm, and I craved ice to cool it down. The first 1.5 mile always appear to be downhill, but it never feels that way. My legs were tired after the bike. I stopped to walk. </div>
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The bottom of the hill was usually the low point of the run, physically and mentally. A whole mile of terrible awaits. Could I really do this? I had this thought, though I had done this race eight times before. Despair is not logical. I told myself I was out of shape and fat, but forged ahead slowly without further walking. Better to get it over with. The hill was evil. </div>
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I took a salt tablet and a gel because sometimes it made me feel less like the walking dead. </div>
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After a mile plus of the steep grade, I got to the top. Just before a dirt track, usually was an aid station, but not today. My water was running low, and I worried about running out. It was located at the turn around. Lovely ice, the magic elixir! </div>
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I felt much better and moved faster down the hill. The road that I just had ran up and the lake were far below. At the bottom and more level ground, I didn’t worry about how slow my time was because, in the past, beating myself up just made me unhappy. Running was enough self-flagellation. I sped up. The finish line was a welcome sight. Total time was 80 minutes.</div>
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I felt like I had just raced a four hour sprint. I went as hard as I could, but slowly, like moving through molasses. Output didn’t translate to speed. The wonders of high altitude exertion. I didn’t place in my age group, but didn’t care. Total time was 3:58, so at least I broke four hours.</div>
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I could bemoan that I was almost last in a difficult race like this one, and I usually do, but I would have quit this sport long ago if I worried about how much I sucked. I decided it was pointless to feel bad about it. It was fun to be physically challenged and persist despite discomfort and the annoying voice in my head that tells me that I am not good enough, am too slow, can’t breath, should give up, should swim back to shore and walk the hill. It just needs to shut the hell up.</div>
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Besides, suffering in cool Flagstaff was preferable to frying in Phoenix.</div>
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trijammerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15858283249053449598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2182113704801393382.post-68246312220659514232018-07-24T16:23:00.000-07:002018-07-24T16:23:14.949-07:00SUMMER IS A SOUL SUCKING SCOURGE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjLo-pv7KfXbFtRjBiSqb4O4A3QnBYEkaXi6_xTrSz4aKfbiG6YLZTh1mrMBZyKIXtOOGtVogjSnmqzFwRz9C4HhBuyPJPjM9MZnLKVJV-4_FwC8jkZFqbuvye7uI2H9gED0x8Tvk6spzL/s1600/20180318_075717.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjLo-pv7KfXbFtRjBiSqb4O4A3QnBYEkaXi6_xTrSz4aKfbiG6YLZTh1mrMBZyKIXtOOGtVogjSnmqzFwRz9C4HhBuyPJPjM9MZnLKVJV-4_FwC8jkZFqbuvye7uI2H9gED0x8Tvk6spzL/s320/20180318_075717.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>In honor of one of Phoenix's hottest days of the year:</i><br />
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I want to go out. But I don’t want to<br />
leave my air-conditioned cave.<br />
I am bored, but don’t want to move<br />
into suffocating white light<br />
that emerges too early from insufficient night.<br />
It burns. <i>BURNS!</i><br />
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White blinding sun. Acid light.<br />
Heat withers my soul and every living form<br />
that struggles to exist. Plants shrivel.<br />
Errands can wait because existence is meaningless.<br />
I feel weak and listless.<br />
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My mood sinks lower and lower<br />
into deep wells of despair. Energy dripping out;<br />
paralyzing inertia.<br />
I take a nap.<br />
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Sleepless night. A.C. anxiety.<br />
Will it fail? The thin veneer of<br />
civilization dissolving into sweat laden misery?<br />
Tentacles of dread.<br />
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Fatigue permeates my pores.<br />
Furnace blast air.<br />
Heat beats resistence. Strength melts.<br />
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I drag myself out reluctantly. It can’t win.<br />
I have to go run.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDTtlsWSvuEW6EkOPlzsnu4d3ql4-2iGSvES_1dN_rGYyUfCVgfKR_dwFWlrqMMbcFk53ycauBZjeq6Z81Npdjqpoh5kcIFekIUb4BdEEkY77Fg98s2HTBxTJXgwMSzHzldtI9sOewEHO_/s1600/IMG_20180724_151739_456.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1294" data-original-width="1294" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDTtlsWSvuEW6EkOPlzsnu4d3ql4-2iGSvES_1dN_rGYyUfCVgfKR_dwFWlrqMMbcFk53ycauBZjeq6Z81Npdjqpoh5kcIFekIUb4BdEEkY77Fg98s2HTBxTJXgwMSzHzldtI9sOewEHO_/s200/IMG_20180724_151739_456.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Probably reading a little low.</td></tr>
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trijammerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15858283249053449598noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2182113704801393382.post-26698887350234358642018-07-15T15:59:00.000-07:002018-07-15T15:59:39.055-07:00Cactus Man Sprint Race Report<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuAEvSqHYtdHgE33E20BElEGImh_nzUq6w6g56qdwFFpl-DQKoJc7ij2LsmGoUgZOnctmjsm-d8c6evVIeT_3gqjMF-L0giaTOGrxXH7252ExP8T_9q64nKgdkuJbbkMwnSzC_svsNMjKW/s1600/20180715_152800.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1376" data-original-width="1496" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuAEvSqHYtdHgE33E20BElEGImh_nzUq6w6g56qdwFFpl-DQKoJc7ij2LsmGoUgZOnctmjsm-d8c6evVIeT_3gqjMF-L0giaTOGrxXH7252ExP8T_9q64nKgdkuJbbkMwnSzC_svsNMjKW/s320/20180715_152800.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I signed up for the Cactus Man Sprint thinking it would be fun after doing the California half ironman. Sprints are short and fast--go hard as possible, then collapse. Then I got injured in training and as a result ruined the half iron. Who the hell gets injured on a bike ride without crashing? The goal became to just hold off collapsing until AFTER finishing.<br />
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After the California race, even a three mile run was questionable, because it hurt. A lot, as in being barely able to hobble. How fast I had gone from fit to pathetic. Having a low opinion of people who merely walk for exercise, I was a now a failure at even that. Was I getting weak and old? Just doing a aquabike might be an option, but it seemed pointless for a sprint. An Olympic aquabike would cost more at this late date, so I just settled on risking a run with the regular sprint.<br />
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The Tuesday before the race, I managed to run three miles at a blazing 14:38 per mile pace. Two miles had been my maximum all month. My hips, groin and gluts hurt constantly, but the pain was manageable. It was do or die, so I did it. The worse time it could be in the race was a forty-five minute run or an hour walk. I would finish eventually, somehow.<br />
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The night before the race, I couldn’t sleep well, because the moon was full and rudely shined too much light in my bedroom. My brain would make any excuse to keep me up, talking incessantly about things that might happen. Shut up, already!<br />
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At the race site outside Tempe Center for the Arts in the pre-dawn hour, my mood was cranky. I was tired, nervous and irritable and all the people made it worse. They were everywhere, along with their dogs. I was stuck in a long porta-potty line behind a man, his son and a hyper dog. If a dog can’t act properly in public, why bring it? Dogs are like children. They are cute to look at, but the frenetic behavior is irritating--dashing all over the place, sniffing butts, barking and being generally obnoxious. Please just go away.<br />
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To get into the lake, we were supposed to hurry down a ramp and jump in. I wasn’t having any of that. The ramp ended in shallow water with hidden rocks and any step in the murky water was treacherous until the ramp was cleared. It was hazardous to toes and other body parts. I got in slowly without incident.<br />
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Since a sprint swim is only 750 meters, I assumed that the swim would be “easy.” Usually I am in the last wave and everyone is ahead of me. The first half was fine. My full wetsuit was a little too warm, but wearing it beat drowning. Swimmers clogged the lake, zigzagged and occasionally one would get in my way, but for the most part, it was nonviolent.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKu1al-UEF-pgPfRJ2C_MJvZFl37GsjUo07F5s21AscbsT2TifUd0ovQqejmQlHJN8zCtV_kcjPW6rGKCrsn_dToQhKDd7tvJVVuaksDX8-orHXT6f3WfJYJUVu-moBXT1QyxIxBKojFz2/s1600/2015-05-17+06.58.12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKu1al-UEF-pgPfRJ2C_MJvZFl37GsjUo07F5s21AscbsT2TifUd0ovQqejmQlHJN8zCtV_kcjPW6rGKCrsn_dToQhKDd7tvJVVuaksDX8-orHXT6f3WfJYJUVu-moBXT1QyxIxBKojFz2/s320/2015-05-17+06.58.12.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's a jungle out there<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small; text-align: justify;">I tooled steadily along, not enjoying myself and wished to be anywhere else, but I was still calm. In the last half of the swim, though, large groups of swimmers stormed through like a herd of elephants. The earlier Olympic waves ran into the sprint waves and they didn’t care who was in the way. A triathlon swim was an excuse to be rude. I got hit a few times, pushed under and kicked. There was nowhere to swim in peace and no escape. The battling hordes made the water choppy. This was not my usual lonely swim and being this physical did not improve my mood. I cussed a lot.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Getting out of the water was a relief. Surviving the swim was always a sense of accomplishment for me. I had 23:39 on my Garmin, which was about my usual time. Transition was empty of bikes, which was typical for me, but I didn’t care. Hopefully, the swim warriors were already well through the bike course and wouldn’t bother me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">How my body would react to riding my bike hard was an unknown. I wanted to go fast on the bike, but was cautious. The whole point of a sprint is being able to bike with abandon, but I didn’t want to aggravate my injury. My rear end and upper hamstrings were still hurt, so I didn’t push as much as normal. I felt good and it wasn’t too hot yet, which spared my body from cooking. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The bike course was flattish, with a million u-turns that went through the streets of Tempe in similar versions of every other Tempe race. It wasn’t too bad for the first and only lap for the sprint, but the two laps of the Olympic would have been boring.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Overall, it went smoothly. No crashes, no people riding side by side blocking the way, no flat tires. The Curry hill climb didn’t feel as bad as I thought it would, a mere bump compared to the Oceanside monstrosities, which could eat Tempe hills for breakfast. It was fine by me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I finished the bike and wondered what world of pain I was about to enter. I soon found out. Every step of the run was a stabbing pain in my rear end, but I was doing it. Running was much better than the hobbling walk I was doing a few weeks ago. I didn’t think about it or how far the run was. I just took it moment by moment and kept moving. Twelve minute miles was much slower than normal, but was better than anticipated. I was grateful just to be able to do it, even though my time sucked. I didn’t podium or anything, but at least broke two hours with 1:59.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Finally, a race I didn’t screw up. No getting lost, no tripping and ER visits, no stitches, no new injuries, no DNF’s; unlike the races of the last nine months. I had actually finished the damn thing. Maybe the black cloud of bodily misfortunes had lifted. If only the knives would stop stabbing my posterior and running wasn’t a argument between muscles and joints. </span></div>
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trijammerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15858283249053449598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2182113704801393382.post-7501213954886535132018-05-22T21:18:00.000-07:002018-05-22T21:18:58.567-07:00Oceanside 70.3 or Things Didn't Go According to Plan Part II<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTjYPepO_cOrbdzpjtFxMOJYroZhFjmKoAZqq_3KH0-qoHaY0v0RZKGvf45uq-Q4EUYubz0t_04OfBbzlxPB0MD5gYu18Vxnl9eIz_WPfibMaqdyuuR5pq1NBSCOXhxlRWlrSxdzOMN6gQ/s1600/20160401_114300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTjYPepO_cOrbdzpjtFxMOJYroZhFjmKoAZqq_3KH0-qoHaY0v0RZKGvf45uq-Q4EUYubz0t_04OfBbzlxPB0MD5gYu18Vxnl9eIz_WPfibMaqdyuuR5pq1NBSCOXhxlRWlrSxdzOMN6gQ/s320/20160401_114300.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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In training for a hilly half ironman, if the race has bike climbing of 2400 feet, then surely riding 3500 feet must be good self-abuse training? My plan was to at least officially finish under eight and a half hours, not end up feeling like I had hot pokers in my butt. The hills bit back.<br />
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Two weeks before the Oceanside 70.3 race, I rode my usual route, but added a section on Bartlett Dam Road. Bartlett Dam road is evil. Trucks hauling boats to the lake with not so sober drivers threaten to blow a rider off the road. The pavement is rough and parts have steep, winding grade. But boring, it’s not. I wanted to explore Horseshoe Dam Road, since I had not been on it. <br />
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The first sign of trouble was an aching knee. Then my right foot hurt. My legs were tired. The hills felt steeper than usual and the way back to the car was pathetically slow. <br />
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The next day, walking hurt. This was a bad sign. I hoped the pain wouldn’t linger, but it settled in to stay in the following days. Running was almost impossible with a stabbing sensation every step I took. By the end of the week, it was better, but then I stupidly did another long bike ride. Healing up then became a bigger priority than training.<br />
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With a week to go, I debated not doing the race at all. It’s a giant hassle with all the beach traffic and it’s difficult to park. Transition was a mile from the finish line. Chances were very good that I couldn’t finish the run, since I could still barely walk. Still, the swim and the bike would be worth doing. The bike in Camp Pendleton was scenic and challenging and one of the best rides around. Plus it was amusing to see the marines were standing around with machine guns to keep the spandex clad invaders in line. Soldiers were always blowing up things. I had done this race three times, so I wanted to try the bike, even if the rest wasn’t finished. Ideally, to do the entire thing would be great, but it just didn’t seem possible. Maybe a miraculous recovery would save me.<br />
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The drive to California was the usual ordeal on a hideously boring, ugly road. At some point, all the monotony always drove me crazy. Endless desolate desert punctuated by half dead shrubs and bare mountains. It cried to be put out of its misery of existence. Even the Palm Springs windmills weren’t doing it for me.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSi6NYxvarxAfvVvVOoTOQ3dE4PrtVLtcIn5a394Zwjn8Cf0LePUdK2-rkHVa0P7JX04u_8dAqhu1n_jY-mYhUz0GMpdhtwQ-3dGiPM5wAzp4PGRHKvpBOgbKg2Rkul9RzFfQbfQ8ONDmW/s1600/20180406_111414.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSi6NYxvarxAfvVvVOoTOQ3dE4PrtVLtcIn5a394Zwjn8Cf0LePUdK2-rkHVa0P7JX04u_8dAqhu1n_jY-mYhUz0GMpdhtwQ-3dGiPM5wAzp4PGRHKvpBOgbKg2Rkul9RzFfQbfQ8ONDmW/s320/20180406_111414.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> From the hotel parking lot. I don't know what the large mound of dirt was for.</td></tr>
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Due to my lack of planning, I ended up in the same cheap motel as my last trip. Weird noises emanated from the room at night. Somewhere nearby, a loud woman who didn’t appear to sleep, talked loudly or argued with her boyfriend every night. This place was real classy. Maybe for revenge I could make loud noises in the day to wake her up. At least I got a free breakfast .</div>
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Race morning, I got up at the ungodly hour of 3:15. Was the stress and lack of sleep really worth it? I got ready to leave, trying to remember the thousand things I had to bring. The car had dew all over it, which was a mystery that I never know what to do about. It was just not an issue in the desert. The defrost and A.C. didn’t do much and the windows were still fogged over. In desperation, I wiped off the windows with kleenix.</div>
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I missed seeing my designated parking garage and had to turn around. They are always invisible in my half bleary early morning state, plus driving in the dark sucks. On the shuttle bus, the driver lady was cheery. I felt like I was going to my doom and tried not to dwell on it. The thought of the swim was terrifying–a cold, un-welcoming ocean with strange creatures swimming around in it. Hypothermia, sharks or drowning awaited.</div>
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The air temperature wasn’t warm out, but it was better than I had feared. One year I got hypothermia from the forty degree air and cold water during the swim and had to go into the med tent afterwards. Thawing out had been a slow process. That had to be avoided at all costs.</div>
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The swim start was a self-seeded rolling start at 6:50 a.m. This was part of my undoing because I erroneously assumed it wouldn’t take more than twenty minutes to get every one in the water and I was at the back of the line. It took forty minutes. The chute was narrow and people were squished together while trying to move forward. It was way too much humanity, though they blocked the wind. I stuck in the back, trying to avoid bodily contact, but ultimately wished I pushed towards the front. This did not give me a lot of leeway with a slow swim and transition since everyone had to be on the bike course by 8:50. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlSY4zuG0pcZjhgF82qiWS3oONhabdDkEV7KV_6gKwSCp2mbfWUJ9WNzL2T48U4vWL5Y5wa6agvnPtG7SaJOh8GB-yrqBepNooQDC98Mb6GBJ-X3wHcjZWh1NzvjxFB2A3z3Sl0Do3ogUj/s1600/20180406_120543-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="809" data-original-width="1600" height="161" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlSY4zuG0pcZjhgF82qiWS3oONhabdDkEV7KV_6gKwSCp2mbfWUJ9WNzL2T48U4vWL5Y5wa6agvnPtG7SaJOh8GB-yrqBepNooQDC98Mb6GBJ-X3wHcjZWh1NzvjxFB2A3z3Sl0Do3ogUj/s320/20180406_120543-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bird party on the beach.<br /><br /><br /></td></tr>
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Wading in, the calm water was a shock, but it felt better after a while. It was much easier to swim in than 2016, when the chop and swells tossed everyone around. The water temperature was 62 degrees, which was bearable. On Thursday they said it was 59, which is hypothermia territory for me. It was hard work to swim the 1.2 mile and all the while I worried that it wasn’t fast enough to beat the cut off. The bright idea of a beach start had been proposed after everyone had signed up for the race, but abandoned for this race by the organizers. This would have been a deal-breaker for me because swimming in the harbor was difficult enough without fighting the surf. Hopefully, that stupid idea will die a painful death. Anyone who was disappointed can go screw themselves.</div>
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The only advantage to the self-seeded start was less bodies to deal with. Kayakers got in my way and the occasional swimmer. The way back was difficult to see, facing the sun with the blinding glare. I just went where the other people were going, siting off a tall building.</div>
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In a post swim daze, I got out and hobbled to transition. I had forgotten to start my Garmin. Maybe the swim was about an hour. It turned out to be 59:03, which was better than expected.</div>
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Transition was a real struggle. The wetsuit stuck on my hands and feet and I lacked strength to pull it off quickly. Getting my bike gear and peeing took way too long, which ate up time to finish the bike before the cut off.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Torture device.<br /><br /></td></tr>
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The first ten miles of the bike were good. The weather was sunny perfection with a gentle breeze and cool enough for a jacket. Then the pain set in and stayed. My seat was uncomfortable–like sitting on rocks and the two pronged Adamo seat padding had broken down. The pressure was right where the sit bones felt the worse. Standing up in the pedals was the only way relieve the discomfort. This wasn’t an option to help climb the hills, though, because it caused too much pain. </div>
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I encountered surfers on the No Pass zone at the Trestles,. One guy was riding a mountain bike, carrying a surf board and weaving all over the pathway. This was an unexpected obstacle, but I managed to get by without being taken out. Where the hell did all these people come from, anyway? Californians are weird.</div>
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In the hills, Meadowlarks sang in a melodious flute-like call. A brown hawk flew by. The wildflowers were in bloom. The beauty took my mind off the misery. Then loud booms penetrated the air from explosives or gun fire. Camp Pendleton contradictions. </div>
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The injury affected my speed, bleeding the output of a fairly hard effort. San Mateo, otherwise know as “Hell Hill” tempted me to walk like everyone else, but that would have been a capitulation to weakness. It was aptly named. I could barely keep the pedals turning over with the pain in my legs. This was the worst climb, as the other two weren’t as agonizing. I wasn’t going fast enough, though.</div>
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About mile forty-six, I realized the cut off would be missed, but stressing about it was useless and too much effort. My mental resignation reminded me of past races, in which the despair hit that the time had slipped away too fast and the race was over. The run probably wasn’t possible anyway, but it would have been nice to finish on my terms. Then the twenty-five mph headwinds started and the course got uglier. This was not fun. Other riders were blissfully unaware of their doom and that they wouldn’t be able to continue. Maybe there was a cut off at this point, but no one stopped me. Racers standing around at an aid station looked like they had given up.</div>
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Back in transition, as expected, an official was waiting to pull our chips. I wasn’t upset, but surely others were. I felt for them. It was an ignominious end to the race and rather depressing, but I accepted the inevitability of it. Total bike time was 4:20, my worst ever in this event. Even if I had started earlier, with my long transition I still wouldn’t have made the 5:30 swim/bike cut off.</div>
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I think I was about five minutes over, but officials wiped out all my split times, even the ones legitimately finished, so I wasn’t sure. How rude. They take my money, but they don’t care enough publish the damn time splits. My complaint about it to them has so far gone unheeded.</div>
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Not finishing felt unsatisfactory and like undone business. It was depressing, with no credit for the attempt. That water was cold and those hills were brutal, even for a partial race. The pain from the injury was constant. It was the risk of showing up, though. Better to definitely know the outcome, then to wonder what might have happened. Things Definitely Did Not Go According to Plan.</div>
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trijammerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15858283249053449598noreply@blogger.com0