Mom

Okay, I admit it.  I'm kinda' a momma's boy.  I'm not ashamed.  I call my mother every day.  In fact, I call my father every day, too.  Why not?  Is it really that burdensome to spend a few minutes on the phone each day saying hello and checking in?  And...if I don't call at the usual time of day, it's not uncommon for my mother to call me several hours later and ask, "Did you forget about me?"  Did I mention, she's a Jewish mother?

I think I'm a pretty good son.  We've had our differences, but we get along well and I make an effort to honor and respect my mother (and my father) as instructed by the 10 commandments.  That said, I admit that I've blatantly rejected her wishes from time to time.

In my high school years, I raced my bike on a velodrome.  If you're not familiar, google it.  A velodrome is a bicycle track upon which races are held for specialized track bikes.  Track bikes look much like road bikes with two major differences.  No gears (we covered that early this week when I wrote about my Sunday morning race.  By the way, I finished 8th of 43.  Not bad for 1 gear).  No brakes.  Track bikes have what's called a fixed gear.  That means that as long as the wheels are turning so are the pedals.  So there's no coasting either.  Try too hard to coast and the momentum of the revolving pedals will throw you over the front of the handlebars.  Track racers can, indeed, slow down, but in a much more subtle way than one would upon a bike with actual brakes.

Track races at the Northbrook Velodrome in north suburban Chicago were held every Thursday night back then.  Each race category competed three times each night.  One of my few claims to cycling fame is that, back then, I used to compete against Christian VandeVelde.  Google Christian and you'll see his long list of accomplishments.  He's among the top professional cyclists in the world and he finished the Tour de France 4th several years back.  As you can see below, (see Category 4 at the bottom) I was even ahead of him in the standings at one point during the season.  But that didn't last long because, boy was he fast, even as a kid!  Yes, I kept this piece of paper all these years.  Wouldn't you??

Anyhow, I was planning to race on the Thursday immediately before my sister's Sunday wedding.  My parents forbade me from racing.  Understanding their concern that bicycle racing is a risky sport and a crash days before the wedding would be really bad, I raced, nonetheless.

It was a good night for me, as I remember.  I placed well in the first two races and I feeling pretty strong in my third and final race of the evening.  We were headed into the last half of the final lap and the field accelerated to a sprint.  I saw an opening and an opportunity to jump to the front.  But karma already wrote my fate for that evening.  The rider just in front of me went down and, with no place do go and, at a sprint, no time to react, I rode right into his body and flipped over my handlebars.  To my fortune, all of my scrapes, cuts and bruises were below the neck so, with a tuxedo on, I would not ruin the pictures after all.  Nevertheless, that sure taught me to never disobey my parents!

I called my mother yesterday evening, as I always do.

"Do you really have to do that Ironman thing?" she asked.

"Here we go," I thought.  "I'm sure planning on it.  Why?" I asked.

"You could get hurt or sick!" she protested.

"I don't plan on it," I said.  "This is a lot safer than the mountain bike races I did all season.  It's a lot safer than bike races I've done for so many years."

Every once in a while my mother tries to convince me to find "another hobby".  After my first bad crash in a bicycle race, maybe 20 years ago, she tried especially hard.  Now, I'm at a point in my life where I don't take undue risks.  I had a bad crash in a bike race in June, 2010 while Rachel and my girls were watching.  Perhaps I'll write more about that in the future.  That was a wake up call for me.  I have responsibilities.  I have a wife and children who need me, parents and siblings who love me, and a synagogue that tolerates me.  So I am cautious when there's significant risk.  I did well during my first season of mountain bike racing.  But I assure you, I made up no time on my rivals while descending steep and rocky downhills.  In fact, that's usually where I was passed by others, opting, instead, to attack on the way back up.  Part of the reason triathlons initially appealed to me is because they are, in my assessment, safer than bike racing.  No tight packs in which to get bumped around.  No loose and rocky off-road paths.  Triathletes don't often taking sharp corners at white knuckle speeds the way road racers do.

"Did you hear about the 35 year old man who died 50 yards from the finish line at the Chicago Marathon a few days ago?" my mom asked.

I paused.  No, I only heard about the woman who was 39 weeks pregnant and completed the marathon, then checked herself into the maternity ward and delivered her baby.

"I'm not going to have a heart attack at the Ironman, mom," I insisted.  She caught me off guard, honestly.  I thought she was be more concerned about the 2.4 mile open water swim.  When I spoke to my father on a recent Sunday, just after I came home from a 25 mile training ride followed immediately by a 3 mile run, knowing all about my limited swimming background, my dad joked, "Don't waste too much time training for the bike and run sections of the race.  You'll probably drown first."  So I was certain that would be my mother's real fear.  But instead she feared that my heart would give out.

I'm not one to tempt fate and I'm not so arrogant as to believe that I'm immune to danger, or karma, but that has never been a concern of mine.  Maybe because of my age.  Maybe because there isn't a significant history of heart disease in my family.  Maybe because I've run 4 marathons, countless other 5ks, 10ks, etc., and ridden in 100s of bicycle races and my ticker's never skipped a beat.  But I can appreciate my mother's concern.  She is a mother, after all.  And the man who collapsed and died didn't appear, on the surface, to be at any more risk than I.  William Caviness was a 35-year-old North Carolina firefighter who was running in order to raise money from burn victims.  And he was a father of two young children.

Yes, this hits close to home.  Too close.  I understand, mom.  And I promise to go for a physical well before the race to get my doctor's blessing to compete.  For you, mom.  And for dad.  And for Rachel.  And for my children.  And for the rest of my family and my friends and my congregation.

I'll be cautious but I won't be afraid.  Genetics are on my side.  And that's what I told my mom.  I reminded her that heart disease is not one of our family's genetic curses.  And I told her that I have never had high blood pressure.  And I told her that I have never had high cholesterol.  I train with a heart rate monitor.  I am so familiar with the patterns of my heart when I exercise and when I am at rest that I truly believe I would recognize any abnormalities.  I notice when my resting heart rate is elevated, indicating that I am over-training and under-resting.  I know my maximum heart-rate is 184, and it's terribly uncomfortable when it beats that fast.  And I know that when my heart dips down to its resting point at about 41 beats per minute, I need to take a deep breath and stand up slowly, lest I become lightheaded and dizzy.  And I know that, in order to complete a full Ironman triathlon, in order to sustain such a demanding physical effort for 10 or 12 or 17 hours, competitors must keep a close eye on their heart rate during the race in order to ensure it stays well below the red line.

So, mom, yes, I really do have to do this Ironman thing, God willing.  But for your sake and for the sake of everyone I love and everyone who loves me, I promise to be cautious.  For you.