Tattoo You

I'm not a tattoo kinda' guy.  The concept has never really appealed to me.  I'm sure somewhere along the line I've been influenced by Judaism's prohibition against tattooing.  There's long been a belief that Jews with tattoos cannot be buried in a Jewish cemetery.  That's not exactly true.  But, as a rabbi, if it dissuades Jews from taking prohibited action, I'm happy to let the rumored belief perpetuate itself.

Post-WWII, Jews have negative associations with tattoos.  If you've ever seen a Holocaust survivor's tattooed arm displaying a concentration camp number, you'd understand.  Forced bodily desecration was just one more way for the Nazis to control and dehumanize their innocent victims.  

Two years ago, on Labor Day weekend, I found myself in line with my family, awaiting the sweet indulgence of Brewster's ice cream.  My gaze fixated on a man in line whose arms were tattooed with Nazi insignias.  My heart skipped a beat and a promised myself I would confront the man.  I waited for a subtle moment after the man got his ice cream when, calmly, I explained that the symbols that he wore so publicly were deeply offense.  I'm not sure if I accomplished anything beyond avoiding the regret I would feel if I just walked away, and, perhaps, setting an example for my daughters, who were blissfully ignorant of the entire exchange, that it is important to stand up for your principles.

All this said, I've always been impressed by the Ironman tattoo.  I've seen more than a few Ironman finishers proudly wearing the famous M-Dot emblem of the Ironman Triathlon.

It's worn as a badge of honor, earned by hours after miles of training, and a finishing time of 17 hours flat or faster.  I've looked upon those tattoos and their bearers with admiration and a tinge of envy.  If ever I were to get a tattoo, that would be it upon the competion of my first Ironman.  I too would wear it with pride, and probably a tinge of quiet arrogance.  But alas, even if I finish Ironman Madison within the time limit, it's just not an option for me.

I've found an acceptable alternative.  I've had some IronJew temporary tattoos made for laughs.  My daughters wear them proudly on their forearms.  I've put one on my calf and it'll remain there until it washes off.

I'll decorate my body in IJ colors at each one of my triathlons in the summer of 2012.  I debated with myself whether it was appropriate to wear it before finishing an Ironman.  Would it be like wearing the race t-shirt before running the race, or accepting the finisher's medal after failing to make it to the finish?  No, it wasn't the same.  I told myself that this was different.  I will always strive to be the IronJew whether or not I ever officially become an Ironman.  Though it may resemble the coveted M-Dot, the IJ logo is subtly different enough to represent both more and less at the same time.  

Who is the IronJew?  It's really anybody who is inspired by his passions, who lives by his principles and who doesn't easily say, "no," or "I can't".  The IronJew is Jewish, or not, and his values and commitment to help others motivates him to perservere when it feels impossibly hard.  My pursuit of the Ironman is only one step in my journey to become the IronJew.  Why can I wear the IJ colors before I finish the IM?  Become one never becomes the IronJew.  Rather, in his commitment to continually striving, he simple is the IronJew.

Join me if you will.  Whatever your goal, your passion or your inspiration, whatever your faith, whatever your causes and whatever your challenges won't you be the IronJew?

Want to wear the colors, too?  Make a donation of $5 or more to CURED by clicking: http://www.firstgiving.com/fundraiser/matthewfield/pigvomit, and email me your address at mfield@tberochester.org and I'll send you a IJ tattoo.  Wear it with pride and know that you helped my nephew, Noah, in the process!

Discover, support, feed the IronJew within!

Tattoo you!!

Fear

I wouldn't say that I am paralyzed by fear, but my fears certainly do impact my psyche.  I've had a few bad bike crashes over the years.  In June, 2010, I was competing in a criterium race.  A criterium race is distinct because of it's short course with lots of tight corners taken at high speeds.  To do well in such a race, competitors want to be towards the front of the pack where they'll get through the corners first.  Riders who find themselves in the back suffer an accordian effect and are forced to sprint out of the corners to catch back up to the pack.  Lap after lap of this becomes exhausting.

As the race started I gave my pedals everything I had and I found myself in the top 5 or so of a pretty large field.  For the first 3 or 4 laps I was feeling great and holding my own.  I knew that if I could just maintain my position and keep myself upright, I had a good chance of placing well.  Going into a tight corner at 30+ miles an hour, the pedal of the rider beside me got caught in my rear wheel and I went down hard.  A rider just behind me crashed into my body at full speed as I was sliding across the pavement.  Once my body came to a rest, instinct took over.  I did a quick assessment and verified that I was still alive and not seriously injured, besides for the major road rash and bruising.  I left more flesh on the road than I would have liked, but nothing seemed broken.  Next I looked at my bike and, from my angle, it looked okay.  Suddenly, I remembered that my wife and my daugthers were 50 yards away, watching the entire scene.  I looked back, forced the biggest, fakest smile I could muster, and gave a thumbs up.

A race volunteer and a spectator helped me off the ground.  When I picked up my bike I discovered it wasn't unscathed, after all.  I slung it over my shoulder and limped over to my family.  I sat down before them and I assured my daughters, who looked pretty afraid at that point, that I was alright.  I broke my bike, I beat the hell out of my body, I rattled my confidence and I traumatized my daughters.  Every time I would go for a ride during the month or so that followed, Talia, my eldest, asked if I was going to crash again.

Rachel and I went to France the next month to follow the Tour de France for a week.  I rode the fabled Alps mountain passes.  I climbed with purpose and I descended with fear.  I couldn't release the vision of my crash.  It owned me.  After a couple more races that season, I decided to put my competitive aspirations to the side for the remainder of the season and planned to start mountain biking, in part because I needed to do somthing else, an in part because I felt that the technical skills required while mountain biking would restore my confidence on the bike.

I enjoyed riding off-road so much that I dedicated the 2011 season to mountain bike racing.  I confronted plenty moments of fear and panic and was forced to make split-second decisions.  Throughout the season I remained cautious on the descents.  Descending off-road was a whole new game for me.  It's exhilerating and nerve-wracking.  I took few risks going down rocky, loose trails.  But my new found skills and confdence helped me find my way to the bottom without fear.  The Raccoon Rally, one of my biggest races last season, was a mud bath.  

                                               

Descending in the slick mud is...well...interesting.  I did what I had to in order to keep the rubber end down, and I pushed myself to the limit on the climbs.  It's safe to say that I never made up any time on the descents.  But I knew my strengths and used a hilly course to my advantage, finishing 3rd under difficult conditions.  

I'm not sure we can eliminate our fears, but we can confront them in a way so as not to let them control us.  If we can identity the sources of our fears and anticipate moments of fearfulness, we can train ourselves to soldier through by rehearsing those moments in a controlled setting.  That's why I descend the same steep, rocky trail again and again until I feel no hesitation.  That's why, in training, I hit the same sharp corner at speed a dozen times until I learn to relax into it.

Back in early July I could barely make my way down a single length of the pool.  I never learned to swim properly, in large part because I was deathly afraid of the water.  I always pretended to just be uninterested in swimming and water sports.  The truth is, I was always afraid I would drown.  When I finally committed to addressing this fear, I spent hours, dollars and extreme effort learning to swim properly and, in the process, found my water confidence.  Tomorrow morning I am scheduled to swim 3000 yards, 1.7 miles.  This will be my longest swim to date.  In July I could have never imagined it would be possible.  In learning to confront my fears, I have learned that anything is possible.  The funny thing is, swimming has become the easiest part of my training!  I've even started to enjoy it.  

Go figure?!  I wonder how many more times I'll say that along this journey.  Go figure...