Widows and Orphans

If you read my last post, you know that I was petrified that my wife was going to share her cold with me.  Well she hasn't, yet.  Directly, anyhow.  But my 8-year old daughter, Talia, seems to have just come down with the bug.  I went to check on her last night and I found her sleeping in bed with a Kleenex shoved up her nose.  When I told her about it this morning, she suggested that she must have fallen asleep while blowing her nose, and then asked if I threw it away.  One day, perhaps, my children will regain their faith in me...  And also maybe enough sensation in their nose to be able to tell whether or not there is a tissue stuck inside.

I haven't come down with the cold, yet, but karma did bite me in the leg last week.  A nagging soreness in my left ankle/Achilles heel is beginning to make me a little nervous.  My running is temporarily suspended.  Though, I suppose, this is a good week, if there is such a thing, to be nursing an injury.  It's a recovery week, meaning, my training schedule is quite light.  Oh, yeah.  Did I forget to mention that it's also been snowing all week?  Yeah, the final week of April and I woke up with more than just a dusting.  I can't ride outside in that.  Do you have any idea how dirty my bike would get?  Yes.  A good week, if possible, to sustain an injury.  So, now just over a month away from my first triathlon ever, and I'm hoping and praying desperately that this little pain dissolves better than the powdered calories I put into my water bottles.

When Rachel and I were in Lake Placid over the summer, watching the Ironman, we noticed that practically every athlete seemed to have a uniformly dressed entourage.  "Team Gary" or "Team Tanya" were all wearing brightly colored t-shirts, displaying team pride and making themselves more easily identifiable to the athletes they were supporting as they raced by.  After I declared my intention to compete in an Ironman, Rachel decided that team shirts would have to be made. 

"Team Pig Vomit" already has an eye-catching, neon logo for the team uniform.

With a couple, shorter, training races coming up in late spring, early summer, I decided to have a few sample shirts made.  Printed on neon green, Team Pig Vomit cheerleader jerseys are certain to capture my gaze as I mosey along the course.  But I also felt it was important to customize each shirt for each of my primary supporters.  Before the Ironman, I'll be certain to make a shirt for my nephew, Noah, with "Pig Vomit In the Flesh," or "Team Mascot" printed across the back.  And while I haven't figured out the wording for each member of my family just yet, I didn't have to think hard to find the right caption for my wife's and daugthers' team shirts.

While in Lake Placid, I noticed more than just a few team shirts declaring something like, "140.6 miles until I get my son back," or, "Have you seen my husband?  He left a year ago and said he'd be back after this race."  So, carrying on the IronJew theme, Rachel will wear IronWidow on her shirt, and the girls will wear IronOrphan.  When I showed Talia the sample shirt that managed to fit better on Elly, she said, "That's sad."  When I asked her if she wanted her shirt to say something different, she responded, "No.  It's funny, too!"  And then she demanded I find a pixelated font to support her recent obsession with all things pixel. 

Honestly, I don't believe I've allowed my training to usurp too much family time.  But even family time has been flavored by Ironman.  I'm certainly less energetic some days than my family would like.  I stretch my sore muscles in the darnedest places.  I try and get home by a certain hour so I can get adequate sleep before waking up early to train.  I can be ornery after a hard day's training, and anxious when new pain develops in my body. 

I cannot underestimate the sacrifice and commitment that my family has been forced to make for my silly goals.  In a way, my children have never known any different.  As long as they've been alive, I've been training for something.  In a way, Rachel doesn't know any different.  As long as we've been together, I've been training for something.  But more than that, Rachel knows and understands me better than anyone in the world.  And she knows that my goals, and my training, and my crazy routine, and my races all keep me sane.  -ish.  She knows that this is just who I am.  I don't know if she loves me because of it, or in spite of it.  But either way, I owe them all.  So once this Ironthing is over, I plan on giving myself back to my family.  At least for as long as they can tolerate me.  Which may be only as long as it takes to travel back home after the big day.

I'm Afraid of My Wife

I love Rachel dearly.  She puts up with all my garbage.  She's come to my races for years to cheer me on.  She's bandaged my wounds sustained in mid-race bike crashes.  She washes my sweaty, stinky running and cycling gear.  She's a trooper.  I just realized that we'll be celebrating our 14th anniversary in Madison.  I imagine I won't be much fund, as I'll be trying to rest up for the big race that is slated for the following day.  Sorry, Rachel.  Thank you, Rachel.  I owe you, Rachel. 

Rachel and I clicked instantly when we first met 17 years ago.  The fact is, Rachel was set up with my oldest friend, Derek.  The other fact is, I stole her away.  The commentary is, he deserved it.  The other commentary is, Rachel and Derek were not meant to be.  In the 17 years that we have been a couple, Rachel and I have experienced the highest of highs and some pretty tough challenges.  And through it all, we've been unshakably bonded together as a couple and as best friends.

I love her.  I respect her.  I admire her.  But the fact of the matter is, I am afraid of her.

Let me reference my post on October 17, "My Greatest Fear, Part II".  My mother raised me to be, well, just a bit OCD.  She used to tell my siblings and me that if we walked barefoot in hotels our feet would turn to stone.  Add to that my bout with salmonella when I was 21, and washing my hands has become a prevalent part of my daily, hourly, minutely routine.  The truth is, I'm not a bad patient.  When I'm sick I deal with it.  In my 9 years as rabbi of my synagogue, I've probably taken 8 sick days.  5 of those were following back surgery.  I worked at home and wrote some mean sermons under the influence of some serious pain meds.  I don't complain when I have a cold.  I don't beg for attention and compassion when I am feeling under the weather.  I deal with being sick.  But I'm scared to death of getting sick.

Rachel has a cold.  The nerve.  Does she not know that I have to be up at 4:15 most mornings and that my body, and especially my respiratory system have to be working perfectly at this point in my training.  I may as well wear latex gloves and a mask at home.  Rachel asked me to change the channel last night and I have her a look of dread which she instantly understood.  Well, what was I supposed to do?  Tough the remote that she already touched?  Put on Desperate Housewives if you want.  I'm not touching that!  I keep a separate hand towel at my end of the vanity, and I've rewashed my hands after I've realized that I dried my hands with her infected towel.  Today we had lunch together.  I asked her for some Advil to wash away the soreness from a training injury.  She asked how many.  I said, "How ever many come out when you pour the bottle into my hand without touching the pills."  Sheesh!  Did she really have to ask?!

I know.  I'm an awful person, and certainly an awful husband.  But what's an aspiring Ironman supposed to do?  Get sick?!

Next post: Karma, aka, What Goes Around, Comes Around!

Garmin Forerunner 610 Raffle

I have a gently used touchscreen Garmin 610 in great shape.  It comes with extra straps but not with HR belt or shoe pod.  I am raffling the unit off to help meet my fundraising goals as I strive to raise at least $14,060 for CURED Foundation in my training for Ironman Wisconsin to support my 10-year-old nephew, Noah, who suffers from eosinophilic esophagitis and gastroparesis.  Please help and hopefully you'll win this awesome running watch.  Drawing will be in 2 weeks- May 1st.

$5 donation for 1 raffle ticket.
$10 donation for 3 raffle tickets.
$15 donation for 5 raffle tickets.
$25 donation for 10 raffle tickets.

Donations can be made online at: http://www.firstgiving.com/fundraiser/matthewfield/pigvomit (or click the pig to the left)

IMPORTANT NOTE: PLEASE EMAIL ME AT MFIELD75@GMAIL.COM AFTER YOU DONATE TO CONFIRM.  OTHERWISE, IF I DON'T KNOW YOU, I WILL HAVE NO WAY TO CONTACT YOU IF YOU ARE THE WINNER.

Please also forward this to as many people as you know.  Though more tickets sold may slightly decrease your odds, it helps Noah and many others.

Thanks for your support and good luck!!

An Intimate Matter

I've started to put a little emotional distance between myself and this whole Ironman thing.  I think this is an important step towards achieving something so trying.  I now see training as a science.  If I get too emotional about it, I risk lighting the whole things up flames.  The passionate striver within me wants to push through every challenge that arises.  But the pragmatist in me understands that attempting to push through certain pain will likely derail my entire plan if injury arises.  I've had aches and pains throughout my nearly 9 months of training.  Some of them I know I can ignore.  But every once in a while I feel a twinge that strikes fear in my heart and puts me on the immediate defensive.  A constant awareness of my body and an ongoing dialogue with Coach Dan has altered my training plans on occasion.  Being honest with myself and my coach has allowed me to successfully deal with the minor issues that have arisen and has allowed me to continue to move forward.  Even when I'm not getting physically stronger, I'm getting mentally tougher.

Just as my training is a science, my body is just a tool, a machine.  I do what I must to care for my body so that it will perform at its peak.  I fuel it with the best foods.  I stretch and massage away tight muscles and minor aches.  I do exercises every other night beside my bed to help strengthen my injured shoulder.  I continue to work on strengthening my core so that my chronic back pain doesn't leave me on the side of the road in Madison.  I shave my legs once a week to keep myself feeling fast and fit and to allow myself to be identified with the endurance community.  I drink more water than I ever have to ensure that I wake up fully hydrated and ready to train.  I take 6 vitamins and supplements each day to keep my body healthy.  I ice minor aches into numbness.  I wear ridiculous compression socks to keep my blood flowing in my legs, allowing a faster recovery.  I throw apple cider, frozen fruit and a whole bunch of whey protein powder into my Magic Bullet after particularly hard workouts to help repair damaged muscle tissue.  My body is no work of art.  I'm hardly Michelangelo's David.  But my body, like yours, is a miracle, and I intend to do everything in my power to keep it going at full steam.

I've been an obsessive cyclist for most of my life.  I want my bikes to ride well, to look good, and to be grossly anorexic.  Though not the worst of them, I am, what cyclists call, a weight weenie.  I want my bikes to be as light as possible.  I have hand chosen certain components and accessories because they are the lightest.  The unseasoned will look upon my road bike saddle with dread.  "How do you sit on that?" they wonder.  "It's so small.  It's so hard.  Doesn't that hurt?" they wonder.  "I'm used to it," I retort.  "And it's so light!" I brag. 

I picked a similarly cool-looking, lightweight saddle for my triathlon bike.  Only, being new to triathlon bikes, it wasn't an educated choice.  A rider's position perched upon a triathlon bike is somewhat different than the same rider upon a road bike.  With his upper body resting upon his forearms and his butt pushed forward upon the bike, the triathlete's hips are rotated forward, thereby putting more pressure upon his, ahem, unmentionables. 

As a bit of a bike snob, I figured that I knew better, but after my first 3-hour ride upon the tri bike and a very pretty saddle, I was just a little impotent, uncomfortable.  Along comes the Adamo saddles...

I know.  It doesn't much look like a bike saddle.  That's what I thought, too.  In fact, being a bit of a traditionalist, as far as cycling goes, I think I rolled my eyes the first few times I saw one of these.  But the most intimate parts of me were screaming for relief and with 112 miles to cover, I was willing to consider something that looks strange and weighs more grams than I would have once thought was acceptable.  At least, I thought, nobody will see my weird-looking saddle when I'm sitting on it. 

Last Thursday was my first 3-hour ride, and, in fact, my first ride, altogether, upon my new saddle.  Observation #1.  I'm an idiot.  I didn't tighten the bolt nearly enough and before long the nose began to tip down towards the road as I fought not to slide right off.  A quick stop, a few turns on the hex wrench and off I go. 

Observation #2 never came.  3 hours later, as I pulled up my driveway, it occurred to me that I utterly forgot about the saddle beneath me.  My legs were tired and my lungs were burning, but my, ahem, unmentionables thanked me for compromising my vanity and a few grams for the sake of my virility.

Rabbi, I Didn't Recognize You Without Your Clothes On

There's a very practical reason why I do most of my training before the sun comes up.  Typically, that's the only time I've got without digging into my work schedule or my family time.  I'm not willing to sacrifice either, so I give up some sleep in order to fill my days with the tasks that I need to fulfill and the pleasures I crave.  But there's another reason as well.  Those early morning hours offer me more privacy and anonymity than I can usually find later in the day.

Recently, I've been following the exploits of triathlon coach, Mary Eggers, the IronMomma.  Like many triathletes, Mary is a do-gooder.  In addition to her coaching career, her personal training and her own family life, Mary is involved with Teens Living with Cancer.  Mary has recently created quite a stir when she tweeted a challenge to Lance Armstrong and he accepted.  The Duel in the Pool is not about publicity, but about helping teens with cancer.  I respect that.

A couple weeks ago Mary and I walked into the gym together.  I introduced myself as we both slid into the pool in adjacent lanes, and as I made my way through the pool, I tried not to count the times that Mary lapped me.  Still on a relatively limited swim schedule on account of my injured shoulder, I was out of the pool and dressed long before Mary.  Before I left for home, I returned to the pool side and left Mary a few dollars for her cause.

Later that day we connected on Facebook.  Mary apologized for not remembering my name, to which I responded, "That's why I swim where I do.  Because nobody knows my name there and it's nice to be anonymous sometimes."  Indeed, it is.

Back at the old gym, the outdoor pool has recently opened for the season.  No, it may not be swimming weather out there, but the pool is warm and I don't mind swimming outside.  In fact, it feels liberating.  Getting out of the pool is a different story, however.  Each time I've have swam outside this season, I find myself standing at the end of the pool after my workout, building up the courage to get out, fantasizing about a pool that has an underwater tunnel to the locker room. 

The office closed early last Friday for Passover.  I broke with my usual schedule and swam mid-afternoon.  Being Good Friday and the eve of Passover, it appeared that everyone was off and at the gym.  I found the last open lane and the pool and swam my proscribed yardage.  And then I stood there.  For a while. The lifeguard looked down on me and all I could muster was, "This is gonna hurt."  I took a deep breath, lifted myself out of the pool, dried off my body just a bit, wrapped the towel around my waist and ran inside. 

I jumped into the shower, thawed out and headed to my locker to get dressed.  I tend to keep my head down in locker rooms, in part because there's nothing I want to see, and more so because I don't really want to be seen.  Nonetheless, as soon as I got to my locker and I heard, "Rabbi!  I didn't recognize you without your clothes on!" 

In all fairness, I was wearing a towel.

This is exactly why I look for certain moments in my life to be truly anonymous, lest, one day, I hear, "Rabbi!  I didn't recognize you with your clothes on!" 

God help me!

Enough Said...

A Big Step Forward

If you've been reading my modest blog with even marginal attentiveness, you know that swimming is my weak link when it comes to the triathlon for which I am training.  I only learned to swim in August, 2011.  I could float and flail before that, but I couldn't convincingly replicate anything that looked like swimming.  I've made progress in the pool that has shocked me.  I have had swim sessions of longer than 3000 yard, though mostly because I lost count of my laps.  I have witnessed my stroke become more efficient as my body glides more effortlessly through the water, and I have lowered my average 100 yard swim time exponentially.

I've also suffered my setbacks.  Having introduced my upper body to regular exertion for the first time ever, my left shoulder was the first to give out.  Over the past 2 months, I've barely been in the pool.  It's been frustrating to make such fulfilling progress to only find myself sidelined while I try and work through an injury. 

Even with my swimming routine down by 80% or more, I've recently taken a huge step forward which guarantees that my 2.4 mile swim in Madison will be less demoralizing than I feared it might be.  Understand, 99.9999% of my training has been in a pool.  I'm still anxious about swimming 2.4 miles in the open water.  And I am particularly uptight about swimming amidst 2500 others.  I don't even like sharing a lap lane in the pool with just one other swimmer.  In my vision, I will start somewhere at the back of the pack, swim at my own pace without worrying about being run over by others, pass those who may be even slower than I am, and make some good progress on the bike and run portions of the event. 

But still, a feeling of dread has been hanging over me.  I've been in enough short-course bicycle races- road, track, mountain bike, to know what it feels like to be lapped.  It's hardly encouraging.  And with a 2-lap swim leg, my greatest fear is being lapped.  Understand, if I am lapped, the first to reach my heels will be the professionals who will pass me like I'm laying in bed.  Swimming amongst some pretty accomplished swimmers at the pool, I can't understand how people can make their bodies move so swiftly through the water.  It would be pretty depressing to be coming to the end of lap 1, only to be overtaken by those who are just about to exit the water, having finished 2 laps in the same amount of time.

I'm proud to brag that I can now guarantee that I will not be lapped in the swim leg of Ironman Wisconsin.  I can say with 100% confidence that I know this to be true.  Progress comes in small bits and big chunks.  It's nice to know, over months of training hard, that the body is becoming stronger and is growing accustomed to moving faster, even if just marginally so.  But every once in a while you may take a big step forward that feels better than anything else.  And, even though I've barely been able to swim on account of my injured shoulder, I no longer fear being lapped in Lake Monona because, well, I won't be lapped. 

If I sound like a bit of a braggart, maybe I am.  But I don't think it's possible to make it through a challenge as physically trying as an Ironman without a certain confidence and bravado.  And even more than that is the knowledge that the swim course has been changed from a 2-lap 1.2 mile course, to a single lap 2.4 mile swim.  Thank you God, or Ironman Wisconsin race director, or whoever helped assure me that, come  September, I will not be lapped in the water. 

Did I mention that the bike and run legs are run over a multi-lap course?