Withdrawal

When I was going through chemo, I was first diagnosed with exercise-induced asthma.  After different treatments with only minimal positive effects, my diagnosis was changed to full up asthma, although it was only considered a minor case.  As much as it bugged me, I went with it and dutifully took the medicine they prescribed – two inhalers and Singulair.  One inhaler was a daily, two time a day one and one when I exercised, so almost everyday.  I did this for two years.  I was underwhelmed with the effects of the medicine.  It didn’t seem to help much with my shortness of breath and I still had bouts of wheezing when I raced which my pulmonologist chalked up to a regular side effect of being an endurance athlete.  It’s not.

I’ve tried going off of my inhalers before, but after a week of being really short of breath, I’d realize that I really did need them and start back up again, grumbling the entire time.  This summer, my pulmonologist decided that I could try a different daily inhaler that didn’t have a bronchodilator in it, just a steroid.  “Great”, I thought, “Now we’re getting somewhere.”  And then he gave me the instructions.  Instead of the traditional L-shaped inhaler, the new one was tubular.   That was not the problem.  It was “how” the medicine was administered.  You put the inhaler partway into your mouth and sucked.  Every single time I had to use the inhaler, I felt like I was a “fluffer”.  If you don’t know what that term refers to, lucky you.  For those of you that do, you’ll understand my dismay.

After a couple of months of this, I decided once more to try to wean myself off of this latest inhaler, since it, like it predecessor didn’t seem to be doing much good.  Over a couple of weeks, I slowly weaned myself off of the offending inhaler, all the while still using my rescue inhaler with my workouts as needed.  I also continued to use my Singulair despite my misgivings.   I had only recently found out from a friend that Singulair could cause depression or depressive symptoms in some people.  The pulmonologist neglected to mention this to me when I asked about potential side effects.  I had started to wonder if my flare-ups of temper might not be exacerbated not only by living with a teenager, but also from the medication. 

Since I seemed to do all right without the daily inhaler, I started to also wean myself off of the Singulair.   I was still breathing pretty well and my post-cancer allergy symptoms were kept at bay with just taking a daily dose of Zyrtec.  Whoo hoo!  Two medications down, two to go.  After about a month or so off of the Singulair, I asked Joe if he had noticed a difference in my propensity towards flying off of the handle.  I thought I had “evened out”, but I wanted an expert’s opinion.  Joe is the closest thing to an expert on me as I can get.  Notice a difference?  He definitely had. 

Meds – 2, Gen – 2

Next up was the Zyrtec.  Since it was winter, I figured that was as good a time as any to go off of the allergy meds – no pollens or allergens floating through the air, or so I thought.  I lasted three days off of the Zyrtec.  Coming from a family with a weakness towards seasonal allergies, I shouldn’t have been surprised.  It was still a tied score and a bit of a stalemate, or so I thought. 

I was discussing my self-withdrawal from my meds with my BFF Carolyn a few weeks back.  She has suffered from a multitude of medical conditions for a long time, including asthma, is a nurse and obstinate like me, so I trust her judgment implicitly.  She too has attempted to wean herself off of medications with varying degrees of success.  Having been her “voice of reason” more than once, it was time to check in with her. 

She didn’t seem to have any issues with my self-weaning technique until I mentioned that I’d been using my rescue inhaler almost daily before workouts.  All of a sudden, our conversation took on a serious tone; I shouldn’t be using the rescue inhaler almost daily as it could potentially cause cardiac issues later on.  Apparently revving up my heart rate on an almost daily basis is not a good idea.  Maybe that’s why they have that disclaimer on the Viagra commercials about your heart being healthy for sex.  Perhaps they should put it on the inhaler packaging as well…

“But my heart rate is naturally really low,” I whined.  Seriously, my resting heart rate is in the low 50s.  Not a good idea was still Carolyn’s advice.  “Okay,” I grudgingly agreed.  I would try to not use my rescue inhaler more than a couple of times a week.  So far, so good as long as my workouts are inside.  The few times that I’ve attempted to do a workout outside or a race, I end up very short of breath or coughing and wheezing.  I’ve cut my inhaler usage down to only a few times a week.  Yay, me! 

Meds – 1.5; Gen – 2.5.  I’ll take it!

I often wonder why my symptoms have improved so much within the past year.  The doctors have told me repeatedly that all of the toxins and side effects of the medications and chemo should have been out of my system within a year of finishing it all.  If that were the case, my symptoms should have abated well over a year ago.  It was only this fall when I felt like things started settling down again.  Even my arm stopped swelling as much as it used to.  I now only wear my sleeve about once or twice a month.  Perhaps some of us just take longer to get rid of everything? 

On another positive note, after my appointments with Dr. B and Dr. C last month, I have officially graduated to only seeing them once every six months for the next two years.  All of my labs came back fine; my tumor marker even dropped from 12 to 9.  Dr. C did my annual ultrasound (aka, the BC gal’s version of a mammogram) and ordered a bone density screening as he noticed some changes to my posture.  The bone density screening came back normal as well, so I guess I just need to work on my posture for the next six months until it’s time to get another checkup. 

Smooth sailin.  That’s a good thing. :-)

The Making of a Ham

For years, Joe and I have been trying to add more and more healthier foods into our already varied diet.  I say already varied because this is what happens when you have one person who lived in Europe and Asia marry another person who, while she never lived abroad, had parents who were foodies before it was cool.   While we don’t go for weird or too far out there, Joe and I have always been willing to try new cuisines.  Our first official date was to an Indian restaurant.  Neither of us had ever eaten Indian food, but we were game and we’ve never looked back.

During our financially lean years, our food choices and variety were a bit limited, as well as my time to prepare them.  This is what happens when you go from being DINKS to being first-time parents on a first-year airline pilot’s salary and a stay-at-home mom.  It was our choice,yes, but the smaller salary than a first-year teacher was quite a shock to the system! 

We did the best we could, but there was a lot of Hamburger Helper eaten in our house during those first couple of years.  It was quick, easy and inexpensive; all things that I needed to feed my family.  I used as much fresh food as I could and even made my own baby food, but our budget just couldn’t swing the organic foods that were becoming vogue.  Occasionally, I’d look at the organic milk prices and gag.  Who in their right mind would pay that much for organic milk??? 

Thanks to some savvy friends, I started thinking that I really should be feeding my kids at least some organic foods if at all possible when Jamie was a baby.  I’d just have to make a few more concessions.   At his nine-month check-up, Jamie fell off of the growth charts.  He was not growing as fast or as much as his peers.  After tons and tons of testing, the docs diagnosed him with short-stature resulting from a benign genetic anomaly.  One chromosomal anomaly came from Joe that in and of itself, causes very few people to stand up and take notice.  However, when it is paired with the Cystic Fibrosis gene that Jamie inherited from me, the resulting side effects can lead to short stature and infertility. 

To give our boy a fighting chance at achieving his maximum height and to rid him and his sisters of as much unnecessary hormones/pesticides, we traded the regular grocery store, hormone-added milk with the organic milk.  Over time, we’ve started adding other organic dairy, meats, fruits and veggies.  While not everything we eat is organic, I read labels more and try to get the least processed food items that I can, except for certain comfort or snack foods like Doritos or Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.   :-)

Organic dairy, fruits, veggies, chicken and beef have been somewhat mainstream for a while now.  Living in a small city, I make do with what I can.  As the kids have gotten older and need me less, I have more time to make more and more things from scratch so that helps.  That Hamburger Helper that I used to rely on so heavily when the kids were tiny?  Well, I can make an ever better version from scratch.  Case in point: I went away on my Mommy Girls’ Weekend last year and, when I came home, the kids raged about the “AWFUL” thing Dad had made them.  That “AWFUL” thing -- Hamburger Helper from the box.  When I informed them that I make it for them they insisted the box version was nothing like my homemade version!! 

While I could easily get organic beef and poultry, although not cheaply, I could rarely find organic pork.  That was tough because this family LOVES pork – ham, bacon, chops, roasts, bacon, bacon, bacon, you name it!  I mentioned this in passing one day to my massage terrorist to which he commented that he had a friend that raised organic, free-range pigs.  Well, glory be! 

I started out tentatively, getting some organic pork sausage.  After that, we went “whole hog” and split the cost of a pig with friends who were also trying to go towards a more organic lifestyle.  I started clearing out the freezer to make room for our half of a piggy.  Being true to form in my love for animals, I felt badly on the day that our porker was taken to the processor – translation: butcher.  Ernest, our processor, is a good old Southern gentleman.  I missed about every third word when he called to discuss what cuts of pork we wanted.  Having never ordered up a half of a pig, I was clueless.  I told him that we’d like some chops, some ribs, ham, bacon, and ground pork, but I’d leave the details up to him.  When I hung up the phone, I told Joe I had no idea what we were going to get. 

When the time came to go and get our piggy parts, we piled all of the kids into the car and drove the forty-five minutes to Ernest’s shop.  We wanted the kids to know kind of where their food came from.  Ernest, we discovered, has a soft spot for kids.  Jamie was crashed in the car having just returned from a Boy Scout function and Michelle was frantically working on homework, but Josie was all eyes and ears.  Ernest was in his element.  He took her and Joe and me through the coolers where there were carcasses of wild pig, deer and cow hanging.  We went past two Muslim gentlemen who were busily butchering a goat and peered into the “parts” bin.  Josie asked intelligent questions and was interested in everything from the carcasses to the equipment Ernest used in his craft. 

Freezer full of Fred 

Fred, as we had christened our pig that gave his life for us, took up one and half shelves in our freezer and was, when we did the math, much cheaper than even the non-organic pork from the grocery store.  The chops were thick, as was the bacon, and the hams were HUGE, but alas, uncured.  We got everything that we asked for and even a few extra bones in case I get a hankering to make some split pea soup, which, unless my parents come for a visit soon, I probably won’t.

As I’ve mentioned, we love ham and bacon, but I had no idea how to cure a ham.  I got on the Internet to see if anyone else did though.  Sure enough, there were several sites that guaranteed that I too could easily make my own ham and bacon!  All I needed were a few simple ingredients and some time.  The only thing I didn’t have was saltpeter aka, pink curing salt.  Enter Amazon. <g>

I thawed out a ham that was bigger than the cat, made my brine, stuck the ham into the largest stock pot that I owned, stuffed it into the fridge and prayed that in a week’s time, I’d have a ham and not a ten pound botulism infested hunk of organic pork.  After the allotted time, I pulled it out of the stockpot.  It looked like ham, but it still needed to be cooked.  I slathered it with brown sugar and maple syrup and put it in the oven to cook slowly throughout the afternoon.  Hour by hour, the house began to smell more and more like ham.  Dinnertime came and we sat down to taste home-cured ham of Fred, mashed potatoes and asparagus.  Fred was oh so delicious and no one died of botulism.  It truly was as easy as the websites made it out to be and the result was so much cheaper, tender and healthier than what we could have bought in the store.   Despite initially being so far out of my cooking element, I had done it. 

One very large thawed ham

One brine

Deposit the ham in the brine.

Put in the fridge for a week.

After a week, rinse off the brine.

Cover it with brown sugar and maple syrup and slowly bake it.

 

Paired with taters and a veggie - delicious!

Next up… home-cured bacon.

Bacon ready for its' brine.

Homemade deliciousness!!!!!

Tonight, I'm sleeping with Batman!

The bad news is that I didn’t get a PR and that I got a gash to the head right before the start of today’s race.  The good news is, tonight, I’m sleeping with Batman!

Today we ran the Museum of Aviation’s Half-Marathon for the sixth year in a row.  We have run it every year since we moved here.  It was my very first ever half-marathon, so I’m a bit nostalgic about the race.  It wasn’t pretty, but I even did it the year I was going through chemo.  We usually have a big gaggle of friends from our Crazy Joes team and it’s loads of fun seeing everyone out on the course.  Invariably, we have one or two people doing their first half or full marathon.  Being the consummate cheerleader, running them in or cheering at the finish line is my favorite part of the race.   This year, I got to run in my fellow BC buddy Jane as she ran her first half, on her birthday nonetheless!

Being that the race is in January, it is almost always cold.  I don’t mind; I enjoy running in the cold.  This year was no different.  The temps were in the twenties when we started and rose to the low thirties when we finished.  No biggie.  That’s what trash bags are for.  I actually wore mine longer than normal, keeping it until mile four because I decided to leave my jacket behind (more on that later). 

In addition to the unusually cold temps we’ve been having, we’ve also been having a lot of rain this winter.  So much so in fact, the road on the back side of the run course got washed out.  That’s a lot of rain!  Because of the washed out road, the race officials had to reroute the course.  Instead of making a loop of the base, we did an out and back.  This is bad.  Not only did it make the course a bit boring <Boo!>, but also the marathon course is normally a Boston Marathon qualifier.  The new course could not be certified, therefore, no Boston qualifying.  Double Boo!

This morning dawned cold and windy, just how windy we were soon to find out.  I dragged Joe out of bed at 0500 to come with me to volunteer for packet pickup.  I did my stint passing out packets with smiles and words of encouragement.  We then posed for the Team Crazy Joes pre-race picture that, as Team Mom, I always cajole, nay guilt everyone into doing.  And then, it was almost go time.

I went to put something in my bag that was stowed under one of the jets on display (Only at a military race do you stow your bags under a jet, right?).   As I stood up, I whacked my head on the nose of the jet.  I whacked it so hard and as hardheaded as I am, my eyes started watering and I saw stars for a second.  Being the medical professional that I am, I immediately started a self-assessment.  I knew the date, time, where I was and all those general orientation questions.  I was not dizzy or nauseated, but I did have a headache, go figure.  Alrighty then.  I said a little prayer that I didn’t begin vomiting or have a seizure on the course and it was go time. 

Joe received a set of Batman jammies from his Endurance Nation teammate and secret Santa Shannon for Christmas.  He was subsequently tripe-dog dared to wear them for a race.  Joe will do just about anything for a good, so it was game on.  Since he’s been plagued with heel pain from his plantar fasciitis, he knew there was no way he would PR.  Instead, he said he would pace me.  Yay!  Not only would I be running with Joe but I’d be running with Batman.   How lucky can a girl get? 

Before the race, I told Joe that I’d really like to try for a PR.  I’d have to run about 8:45s to get a PR, something that I knew I could easily do for a 5K and could do on the treadmill, but was unsure if I could sustain on an outside run.  Turns out, I couldn’t.

I did fine on the first three miles.  And even mile four wasn’t too bad, but then we hit the WIND!  Joe doesn’t think the wind was that bad, but he must have been running in a different wind than the rest of us.  Everyone else that I spoke with after the race spoke of the same wind to which I refer.  At mile nine, the leg cramps hit, but rather than admit it to Joe, I kept running, just slower than I had been.  Our buddy Jerry passed us on mile ten.  There aren’t many people that I don’t mind passing me in a race but he’s one that it didn’t bother me.  I tried to step it up on the final mile and was cheered to see our friend Josh (who graciously took my water bottle) and heard several others cheering me on.  As I rounded the corner for the last push to the finish, I did a lot of self-motivating talk and scanned the finish line for my Brownies who were volunteering at the finish line.  As I crossed the finish line, I was engulfed in a sea of little faces pushing water, tissues, hugs and a medal at me, all of them talking at once.  What a rewarding way to end a race!  Poor Joe.  I don’t think anyone but Josie even noticed that he crossed just a second behind me, his Batman cape fluttering in the wind. 

As with any race, I goofed up some things, but I was happy with other things.  I goofed up by not starting to eat my bananas a few days before the race to ward off cramps.  I should have done more outside running than I have to prepare myself for running in the wind.  I did fuel and hydrate well during the race, but after running more than a dozen other half-marathons; I think I’ve figured out my system there.  I was appropriately dressed; I am a freak in that I really don’t mind running in the cold.  And, after running this race for five years previous, I finally ran up the hill on mile ten.  THAT was a huge milestone for me!

I would have loved to have gotten a PR, but after thinking long and hard about why I don’t push myself just that little bit more, I shared my theory to Joe.  I think I’m afraid to push myself from fear of injury and fear of a full-blown asthma attack.  I’ve had so many injuries in the past few years that I’m now more timid during races and in training.  I don’t want to backslide.  Prudence over folly I say.

I am always short of breath for several days after any half-marathon I run.  In fact, I started coughing within minutes of crossing the finish line.  I had used my inhaler before the race and had to do so again shortly after the race.  After we got home I coughed almost non-stop for two hours before my lungs started to settle down.  Talk about an abdominal workout on top of a cardio workout! 

A couple of years ago, I asked my pulmonologist about my shortness of breath after races and he laughed and told me that he’d probably feel the same way.   Even though the shortness of breath and coughing are a nuisance, I can deal with both if I can continue to race.  I’m afraid if I push myself even more, I’ll throw myself into a full-blown asthma attack out on the course and wind up in the hospital.  I love to run, but that’s not a cost that I’m willing to pay.  I feel a bit wimpy saying that, like I should be able to “handle” or “control” my asthma better, but I guess with age comes wisdom, right?

All I know is… tonight; I’m sleeping with Batman! :0)

Channeling My Inner Zebra?

As athletes, we all have our rituals and checklists.  Certain clothes need to be worn and aren’t worn for several weeks before the race just in case there is a cataclysmic breakdown of all washers and dryer in a six state radius of one’s race.  Bags need to be packed with the precision of a NASA employee sending someone to the ISS. 

And then, there’s the nutrition…  When you’re young, it’s not as big of a deal.  You can eat pizza and drink beer until two in the morning, get up and race the next day like it’s just another day at the office.  Not so when you’re middle-aged or beyond.  Meal planning starts days, weeks or sometimes months before the race.  We all know that fiber is usually our friend.  Not so a couple of days before a big race.

Fiber + big race = big dump… in a port-a-potty… out on the course…       where TP is not always accessible.   Not fun. 

Yes, as athletes, we’re a quirky bunch.  Joe saves his checklists from races and we eat the same thing (if possible) the night before a race – “Dad’s Easy Chicken”.  He has me write some phrase of the day on his arms before his Ironman races.  And, Joe has instilled in me the need to get a good night’s rest two nights before the race, because he says that’s the sleep you race on, not the sleep from the night before your race.  My buddy Stefanie paints her toenails bright pink and her fingernails black to remind herself to be tough, but to have fun.   Don and Megan eat cinnamon rolls for breakfast together on race day.  I wear something pink, to remind me to remember those that can’t race.  Coffee and McDonalds on race morning are also popular with our crowd.

As I showered today I was thinking about all the things we do in hopes that our races will be easier, that we will be faster, stronger, better.  As luck would have it, I was rinsing out the zebra-print headband at the time.  “I know,” I thought, “I need to come up a visual cue that will help me stay in my box and focus during my races this year.  A fun animal print would be good.”  

Now, those that know me and know my wardrobe will tell you that while I love bright colors, I’m not a pattern kind of gal.  Being as petite as people tell me I am (I’m not that small, people!), I generally stick to solid colors or small patterns.  And things must match!  I loved Granimals as a kid.  There is a reason my scuba instructor called me Gap Girl. 

The only reason that I even had a zebra print headband was because it was included in a multi-pack of headbands.  Since I was wearing purple and black workout gear today, I figured it “went” well enough.  But, I digress.  Back to my newly formed and soon-to-be-instituted ritual –an animal print something or other to make me feel bold, to make me feel, strong, to make me feel fast…  Yeah, I know.  A girl can dream.

What’s the fastest land mammal?  A cheetah.  “That’s it!  I’ll find some fun cheetah-print item to wear when I race,” I thought. 

But then I started thinking about cheetahs.  While they may be the fastest land mammals, they are sprinters and peter out after only a few short minutes of work.  I am a distance athlete.  I need to swim and bike and then run some more to reach the finish line.  And, when you look at a cheetah’s success rate, it’s pretty paltry.  Only fifty percent of a cheetahs hunts are successful.  And really, how many of us really look like the human version of a cheetah?  Well, yeah, Chrissie Wellington or Meredith Kessler do and Andy Potts or Jesse Thomas, but I’m talking about regular real people, not pros or genetic anomalies.   

I am not a cheetah; I identify more with zebras.  Just for fun I pulled up a couple of websites about zebras to do a little research.  My favorite was this one from Kids Konnect:

http://www.kidskonnect.com/subjectindex/13-categories/animals/57-zebras.html

According to the website, zebras have excellent eyesight (For seeing the course clearly, my dear.), great hearing (The better to hear the competition coming up behind them, my dear.), and excellent sense of taste and smell (To smell the competition’s fear and to taste sweet victory, my dear.). It stated that zebras are short, stocky, social animals.  Zebras were sounding more and more like me than the lithe, beautiful solitary cheetahs. 

Next I checked Google to see how fast zebras and cheetahs could run.  Here’s a nifty little website although they don’t have cheetahs as one of their highlighted animals.  http://www.howfastcan.com/a-zebra-run/.  According to this website, zebras can run up to forty miles per hour.  A cheetah can go from zero to sixty in less than three seconds, but remember… its’ success rate for kills is only about 50%.  Talk about good odds for the zebras, especially when you take into consideration that the cheetahs aren’t always targeting only zebras.  I’ll take the zebras’ odds any day.  I know.   I know.   What about when you factor in the kill rates of lions with the cheetahs against the zebras?  I still think the zebras would be ahead of the power curve, and have you EVER seen ANY lion-print accessories?  Work with me here.   

 So, based on my not-so-extensive or scientific research, I think that when I compare animals in the animal kingdom; I am more like a zebra than a cheetah.  Look for my super-cool zebra print accessories that I’ll be sporting this season.  I hope that it’ll make me faster.  If not, I’d better practice my dodge and weave technique to avoid the cheetahs out on the course.

My New Coach

This year, in addition to my other New Year’s resolutions, I’ve added one to be better about doing core work.  I’ll admit it: while I’m almost fanatical about completing my prescribed run workouts, I’ve been really bad about consistently doing core work.  This is the year I’ve committed to try to do something about it.  The experts say that it takes six weeks to get a habit engrained in your brain.  Here’s hoping.

For the uninitiated, core work is basically a fancy way of saying abdominal work.  After three babies and four-plus decades, my core ain’t what it used to be.  I’ve been wondering for a while if some of my endless injuries couldn’t be even slightly the result of a weak core.  And, everything you read these days indicates that to get faster and stronger, you need a strong core.  Okay.  Okay.  I get it.  Time to work on the core!

As much as I used to lament my rest days, now I cherish them.  Ah, a rest day!  I can be a slug.  Well, not really as those of you that know me know, but you understand, right?  No workout clothes are required, but there’s always something on my plate, so get showered, get dressed and out the door.

While my current training plan calls for two rest days each week, it also has the caveat that I should be doing core work on those days.  Huh?  No more complete rest days?  It’s just twenty minutes, but to my brain, that’s still a workout.  But, do I even bother to dirty some workout clothes for a measly twenty-minute core workout when I just as easily pull the clothes I wore out of the hamper from the night before?  That’s what I usually do to walk the dog anyway.  One problem solved. 

Problem number two: what core workout do I do?  There are so many out there, but this time, in hopes that I’ll stick to it, I’m gonna do my own thing and go with what feels right for that particular day.  I plan to do a combination of yoga and traditional abdominal work with maybe some Pilates thrown in for good measure.  I miss doing a traditional yoga class, but there hardly seems time for it anymore with all the other workouts each week.  Plus, I haven’t found a class at a good time for me.  And lastly, I miss my old yoga instructor in Miami.  He was great and his workouts always kicked my butt, in a good way.

Coach Joe is great for the running, biking and swimming questions and concerns and for the motivation that I need.  He, like me though, hasn’t been great about doing consistent core work.  It was time to bring in a fresh face so, in addition to Coach Joe, I have a new coach this year.  My new coach doesn’t say a whole lot, but he’s demanding and gets right up in my face when I’m struggling.  His gaze is steady and reproachful when I’m starting to tire.  His praise and motivation, when given, help me to laugh and smile, a huge plus when my muscles are on fire or about ready to give out.  Occasionally, he will deign to stretch with me but, like all good coaches, he has his own times to work out and his own workouts that he strictly adheres to.  Oh, and I forgot to mention, he’s really ripped and, I think, quite handsome. 

Meet my new coach:

I am an Ironman… Volunteer

Volunteering at an Ironman is not for the faint of heart.  Or, the weak-kneed.  Or, the germaphobic.  Or, Mr. Clean.  Not if you volunteer the way I do, anyway.

Forget race shirts, I'm going to start collecting volunteer shirts!

I just returned home from another volunteering stint at an Ironman race.  This time, it was Ironman Florida, and I did a whole lot more volunteering that just passing out drinks and snacks and holding a puke bucket for the winner of Ironman Wisconsin.  The winner was very gracious about it and I did do more than that, but those were the highlights of my time in the medical tent at IM Wisconsin. 

This weekend, I participated in my own Ironman – the not very well known and very understated “Ironman Volunteer”.  Unlike a traditional Ironman, I had a well more than seventeen hours to complete my race.  I was allowed to rest in between disciplines, there were no drafting penalties if I chose to chat with a friend and, had I been so inclined, I could have had a beer or two the night before and suffered no ill-effects on race day.  Best of all, my registration fee was minimal and I still got a nifty t-shirt and heart full of memories. 

Go, Crazy Joes, go!

My journey to “IMVOL” began last year when four of my friends and training buddies blithely decided to volunteer at IM Florida and then sign up to race this year.  I told them when they signed up that, while I would NOT race an Ironman distance, I’d be more than happy to train with them.  Bad knees and hips, not wanting to take the time away from the family, not wanting to work that hard, etc, were my excuses to not train for one myself.  Being the consummate cheerleader though, I was happy to tag along on their endeavors and bolster them up when necessary.  That truth really came into play when our friend Jerry decided it was a good idea to have “one too many beers” the night before a race rehearsal.  It was a rough ride for Jerry, but I like to think it was made a little easier by my presence, patience and encouragement, that and some downright hardcore ribbing from friends and training buddies. 

Fast forward to several months ago.  I really wanted to go and cheer our friends on, but I’m a frugal sort.  How could I justify the expense and time away from the family to go down and cheer our friends on by myself?  Joe, being Joe, insisted that I go and not worry about the expense.  Stefanie, Gina, Blake and Jerry would appreciate it, he kept insisting.  Stef and I had been friends and training buddies since I moved here.  Gina and Blake were also friends who I’d raced and trained with for years.  Jerry was a new friend and training buddy, but we’d developed a fast friendship with him and his wife, Penny, also a triathlete.  In my heart, I knew I needed to go; I’d followed them so far on this journey, I needed to see it to fruition.

Blake, Gina, me and Stef before a long training ride.

Joe booked me a hotel room close to the venue, but I didn’t say anything to my friends.  I didn’t want to disappoint them if something came up that I couldn’t get out of.   About a month before the race, I was on a group ride with another friend who asked me if I was going down to watch Stef, Gina, Blake and Jerry race.  I told him that I wanted to, but blah, blah, blah.  He then offered up the couch in the condo that he and his family would be staying at that was right down the street from the venue.  It was kismet.  Scott, a two-time Ironman, and his wife, Tami, had come to Kona to watch Joe race so they understood the whole “supporting your friends and training buddies” thing. 

Since I was going to be by myself with no responsibilities other than to support my friends, I decided that I was going to a.) Surprise them by being there and b.) Volunteer to kill time while they were racing.  So… I started a long convoluted ruse to keep them in the dark about me coming to the race.  Whenever one would say how great it would be that I show up, I’d tell them that I wasn’t going to be able to be on the course with them, but that I’d be there in spirit.  I didn’t lie; I really wasn’t going to be on the course with them, I was going to be cheering from the sidelines.  Scott and Joe kept mum.  The only other person in the know from the Crazy Joes was Corin since she’d be helping with the Girl Scout meeting that I’d be missing.  Thanks, Cori for having my back!

The week of the race, I started posting selfies of me wearing my assorted Ironman shirts to “motivate” Stef, Gina, Blake and Jerry.  The morning I left for Florida, I had Joe take a pic of me in that day’s shirt and post it to my Facebook page later in the morning to keep the ruse going.  Blake was the only one who got suspicious due to my own slip up when I asked him where everyone was staying one too many times.  Everyone else had no clue. 

Day #1

Day #2, right after I'd seen both Gina and Jerry

Day #3

Day #4

Day #5, right before I left for FL

Selfie on the way to FL

I left my house at five in the morning on Friday.  A couple of weeks earlier, I had signed up to help with bike check-in from 10am-3pm, so I needed to leave in plenty of time to get there.  The weather forecast was calling for heavy rain on Friday so I packed a thin rain jacket along with all the other stuff a triathlete/runner brings for a weekend getaway – running clothes, swim suit, Garmin, water bottles, toiletries and some other random clothes. 

Bike check-in…before

Now I'm "official"

I had thought for days how I was going to let my friends in on my little secret.  I finally decided that I’d have someone take a picture of me wearing my volunteer shirt in the bike area and text it to each one of them with a caption that read, “Please see your friendly volunteer for assistance with bike check-in.”  In theory it was a great idea.  Little did I know that my cell phone did not like to send pix within texts while in Panama City Beach?  One of them got my cute little text… at nine o’clock that night and I think a couple never got it.  Best laid plans…

Jerry, Blake and me

Blake and Jerry were the first to arrive at bike check-in.  By that point, I’d been checking in bikes for a while and was right in the thick of things.  My job was to direct the athletes and their bikes to go into three different chutes so official photographers could take a pic of each bike for security purposes.  I should have remembered from my five times as an Ironspouse that Ironmen or future Ironmen can be a bit “prickly”.  Blake, who often times acts like a big brother to me, said, “I knew you were coming!” in that bossy big-brotherly kind of way when he saw me.  I was totally deflated.  Jerry’s response was better, but that of their wives was even better.  Jane and Penny were behind me and one said to the other that I must have a twin because the girl checking bikes in looked so much like me from behind.  They were going to ask “her” if they could take her picture to send to their friend Gen when I turned around and greeted them warmly. Boy, did we all had a good laugh over that!

Double red flag - no swimming!

Stef and Gina came to bike check-in together and were absolutely delighted to see me!  Their reaction was the highlight of my day, which was good because shortly after that, it started to rain – A LOT!  It rained and rained and the wind gusted and gusted.  I felt a bit like Piglet in the story of the Blustery Day getting blown around.  Bikes racks were getting thrown around the transition area and bikes were getting knocked to the ground by the wind.  You want to stress out a few thousand temperamental triathletes throw that weather at them on top of a double red flag at the beach where there were rip currents and five foot swells!

Stef and Gina were super sweet to all of the volunteers!

Many of above-mentioned triathletes waited until the worst part of the storm blew over and then they brought their bikes down for check in, complete with seats and handlebars covered in plastic and taped down so tight you’d need TNT just to get some of that stuff off.  Enter yours truly, the perky IM Volunteer whose job it was to cheerfully and politely explain to them that, yes, they really did need to take all that stuff off of their handlebars so that the nice photographers could take a picture of their bikes for security reasons… just like the nice volunteers at the front of the chute had already told them.  And, no, they couldn’t stop right in the middle of the line to do so.  Thank goodness I have my own Ironman and kids (one of which is a teenager)!  I didn’t take any of the snotty or downright nasty comments to heart.

When my shift and the rain were finally over, I high-tailed it back to the condo to meet up with Scott, Tami and their girls.  We talked about dinner plans and then Scott and I headed to the volunteer meeting.  It’s like an athlete meeting, but a lot less informative.  Our team captains showed up and told us to be at our designated spot fifteen minutes before our shift was to start.   That was it.  Uh, couldn’t they have said that in an email? 

The only good thing that came out of going to the volunteer meeting, besides a short walk, was that I finally got to meet Jess and John, two EN teammates of Joe.  Joe and John had raced IM Louisville together and they told me that I had met them there, but I have no recollection of that – I’m claiming chemo-brain!  Anyway, a while back, Jess and I had struck up an email friendship over turnips of all things.  We became pen pals of the new millennium.  She’s a mom with young kids and a triathlete like me and just as wacky and funny as my other friends – would I have any other kind?  Scott was chuckling as we walked away from our meeting telling me he wasn’t at all surprised we were friends the way we fell in and were talking a mile a minute from the get-go. 

John and Jess were also there supporting a friend and had decided to volunteer.  They were going to be passing out bags in T2.  Scott was a bike handler in T1 and our friend Kelly was going to be manning an aid station on the run.  Little did Kelly know that he was also going to have to set up said aid station?  I was slotted for body marking at o’dark-thirty and then catching athletes at the finish line from 6pm-9pm, right when Gina was hoping to finish. 

Can't stay out of the water!

After a yummy dinner of a fish sandwich, some fries and onion rings and a short stroll on the beach I headed to bed.  I slept poorly being afraid that my alarm would wake Scott and Tami’s daughters and that I’d oversleep.  I was out the door at 0420 – wide-awake and excited for my friends. 

I have always admired the folks who do body marking.  They always seem so cheerful and perky despite the ridiculously early hour.  Since I’m a pretty perky, cheery sort of person, I figured that would be a pretty good job for me.  Plus, I’m not averse to dispensing hugs and kind words to those that look like they need them.  And lastly, I have pretty neat handwriting when I want to. 

Gen and Stef selfie before the race

My first athlete was visibly shaking when I wrote his numbers on his body.  I gave him some reassuring words, a quick pat on the shoulder and sent him on his way.  He gave me a wane smile, thanked me and wandered off into the crowd.  After that, I got into a groove and the time went quickly by.  I accidentally offered to body mark one of the pros and then cheekily offered and then quickly declined with a saucy grin when I saw him again.  Rinny (reigning world champ) walked right by me with her bike, no entourage or anything, and was then swallowed up by the crowd like she was just Julie Bag’O Donuts age-group triathlete.   Stef came by to have me write her number and her age on her legs, and I’m sure for some last minute encouragement and hugs from me.  Soon, it was all done and time to head to the beach for the swim start.

Jane (my BC buddy) and I waiting for the swim start.

The swells from the day before were gone, but there were still some pretty fierce looking waves.  The sun was coming up, bringing with it a gorgeous day.  Once the cannon went off, the crowd edged into the water to get a closer look at the athletes as they sprinted a short distance on the beach before galloping back into the wavesto start another lap.  I got soaked from the waist down, but was delighted that I got to see my friends looking strong as they started their second laps of the swim leg.

Stef was somewhere in this mess

Jerry was all business

Blake wears pink in support of Jane!

Gina being true to herself!

Scott texted me towards the end of the swim.  They needed a lot more help in T1 to pass out bikes and could I come?  I looked a Penny and sent him a text that we would be there soon.  Leg #2 of IMVOL was about to begin. 

Penny had NO idea the wild ride I was about to take her on!

Our job in T1 was to yell bib numbers down a line as the athletes came down the aisles to get their bikes.  I was also responsible for wrangling said bikes and getting them to the athletes whose bib numbers were in my section.  Penny purposely put herself by the rack where Jerry’s bike was and told the other volunteers around her that when #1970 came through that she’d get his bike.  Jerry got the surprise of his life when she handed him his bike in T1. 

Jerry - ready to tackle 112 miles

At the end of our shift we asked the team captain if she needed help during T2.  Definitely!  So, after a short break to eat some breakfast and take a short walk to try to find one of Joe’s coaches (Coach Patrick, where in the heck were you????), we were back at it. 

We had NO idea what we had gotten ourselves into when we agreed to take a five-hour shift in T2.  The bike catchers took the bikes from the athletes as they came into the transition area.  Our job was to take the bikes from the bike catchers and run them back to the racks according to their bib numbers.  Did I mention that there were over three thousand bikes to be caught, handed off and racked?  Had we known, we would have put on our running clothes and shoes as well as our Garmins. 

As luck would have it, one of our fellow T2 volunteers was wearing all the correct gear, including the all-important Garmin.  Brian, Penny, and I kept ending up in line with each other and the team captain was soon sighing with relief whenever she saw one of her “runners” as she referred to us standing next to her in the queue.  The other volunteers started calling me the Energizer Bunny.  I ran initially because I thought we were supposed to and then because we started getting behind when the athletes started coming in fast and furious.  At one point after one volunteer group of teens left, there were only two of us in line to take multiple bikes that were coming at us.  Ack! 

Penny was a super-trooper!

I'm still cracking up at how BIG this bike was!

In a rare moment of slightly less bikes coming in, one of the other volunteers challenged me to a sprint up the aisle.  Away we went.  Well, I thought we went, but I went a lot faster than he did.  I thought he was holding back so I slowed down for him to catch up.  He made up some ground, but I still ended up “chicking” him.  He saw me the next morning and asked how my legs were feeling.  We both laughed when I told him they were sore.  Hmmm I wonder why?

The bruise is now a rainbow of colors!

When things got really busy, we had an overflow bike rack, which led to a minor injury for me.  I was running a bike back to rack when someone else was trying to wrestle a bike onto the overflow rack.  He ended up losing control of the bike and knocked me down.  The good news was that I didn’t drop the bike I had.  The bad news was that I ended up with a small gash on my ankle and an immediate goose egg on my shin the size of my hand.  Only later did I also notice a bruise on my thigh and that my ribs were really sore.  Ah well, just a few more reasons to be sore.

Brian's Garmin at 3:30pm

Brian had to leave at three thirty and we’d been running intervals almost non-stop for the past three hours.  According to his Garmin, we’d already run over eleven miles at that point.  Yes, over eleven miles.  Needless to say, at that point I decided that I did not need to do my long run the next day.  When all was said and done, I calculated that we had run over nineteen miles in T2 alone.  Whew!!!  I was filthy from handling all of those bikes, bloodied, bruised, sweaty, hot, tired and happy.  We’d seen our athletes go out onto the run and knew that even if they all had to walk the marathon portion of the race that they would indeed finish in the allotted seventeen hours. 

Bless Penny!  She hung in there with me and decided to help during my next volunteer gig as well.  We took a thirty-minute break to eat a quick bite and then headed over to the finishers’ chute.  Our job as “catchers” or, “handlers” as the athletes referred to us, was to lead the athletes through the finishers’ chute, helping them to get their hats, shirts, medals, water, space blankies and photos and eventually out the gate towards their loved ones and the all-important F-O-O-D!

Second to last, but BEST job - "Catchers"

What a rush that job was!  We were hugged, high-fived, and had our picture taken innumerable times.  We were cried on, snotted on, sweated on, slobbered on, collapsed on, and leaned on.  Thankfully, no one puked on either of us, but I’d be willing to bet it happened to at least one catcher.  We witnessed utter elation and delight, frustration, pain, faith and love.  We were blessed and thanked hundreds of times.  

Penny and I are nurturers by nature, so this job was right up our alley.  Being the experienced Ironmate and a mom, I made sure my athletes were cognitively with it, physically okay and had turned off their Garmins/GPSs right after they got the requisite high five and hug at the finish line.  I made sure that their hats/sunglasses/medals were looking good before I let them get their pictures and I made sure the athletes had some idea where their loved ones were before I let them leave the finishers’ chute.  I know how shell-shocked Joe has been in the finishers’ chute and how kind the catchers have been to him, so I was just paying it back a little to the athletes I handled.

When the first Endurance Nation athlete came through during my shift, I politely asked the team captain and the volunteer who was supposed to catch him if I could do the honors, that he was one of my husband’s teammates.  I had no idea who he was, but thought he might appreciate someone who was part of the extended EN “family” catching him.  After that, whenever an ENer came in, I was put to the front of the queue and the team captain referred to me as the “official EN catcher”.  It was so nice to meet several of Joe’s teammates, most of whom knew Joe through racing with him or through the forums.  One even knew who I was.   Joe had a steady stream of texts from me whenever one of the ENers would finish and how each looked so he could share with the rest of the team. 

Happy to be finished EN athlete!

Our “official” shift was done at 9pm.  Based on the info we were getting, Gina should have arrived just a little bit after nine.  The team captain was more than happy to let us wait at the finish to catch her.  Sometimes it pays to be polite, enthusiastic and compassionate to others.  We waited a short while and soon enough, Gina came down the chute, fulfilling a lifelong dream with her characteristic smile on her face.  What a glorious thing it was to behold!   Penny and I yelled and screamed and cheered her to the finish.  Then we shared a huge group hug, some laughter and a few tears. 

Knew when I met her that she'd be here someday!

Jerry was right behind her a few minutes later.  By that point, Penny had the wherewithal to go ask the medal people for two medals, one for Jerry and one for Stefi who we knew wouldn’t be much behind Jerry.  And again, we waited right under the live cam camera.  Roo texted me and told me that I was too loud on the live cam.  I ignored him.  Jerry came in next and Penny surprised him yet again by catching him and then putting his medal around his neck.  What a privilege it was to share that moment with them!

What a moment to treasure for them both!

While we were waiting for Jerry and Stef, the female winner of the race, came up to the finish line to put medals on people.  She ran out of medals quickly and turned towards me, politely saying that she needed more medals.  She eyed the medal that I was holding for Stef and I firmly, but politely told her that she couldn’t have that one; that it was for a friend.  She looked surprised, but took my rejection with good graces.  Leave it to me to say no to the champion of the race.

Stef came across the finish line in true Stefanie fashion – arms held aloft in victory with a HUGE smile on her face!  After we hugged her and pulled her away from the finish, I put her medal around her neck.  I’ve seen this girl go from budding triathlete to mother to now an Ironman.  What a thrill that was for me!   If I had any doubts before about going down to cheer my friends on, they were completely wiped away in that moment!  How could I have ever missed it!?

Entering the chute in true Stefi fashion!

So proud of this chica!  

 

Girl Power!

Not wanting to get kicked out of the catching area while I waited for Blake to come in, I tried to blend in with the other volunteers.  A sweet young girl was standing by the huge vats of chilled water, handing them out all by herself.  Ta-da!  I had a new job!  The only bad thing was that the sun had gone down and it was getting chilly.  Add that to repeated sticking my hands into ice cold water and I myself was getting a bit chilly.  Thankfully, Blake came in sooner than we expected.  The only bad thing was we weren’t up at the front of the chute.  The good thing was, we can run fast so we caught him just after he went past the live cam.  Lucky for Roo, he did not have to listen to me yell and cheer again on the live cam.  

My birthday buddy is an IRONMAN!

As for my IM VOL experience, I finally finished my day at about midnight after Gina and I went back onto the beach to get her morning clothes bag.  Thankfully, as we were leaving the finishing area, a volunteer was bringing hot cocoa in.  He was sweet enough to give me one when I asked and explained that I’d been there since 0430.  It was warm and creamy and obviously made with real milk.  YUM!  It was a delicious sweet treat to end a wonderful day.

And so, at the end of my day, I was dehydrated, tired, and sore, but fulfilled.  Body marking was a great way to start the day.  Where else do very fit people voluntarily strip off their clothes, let you feel their shapely calves and then allow you to write on them?  In T2 I got a great workout in, but way more than I expected to.  At the end of the day, all four of my friends and training buddies became Ironmen.  They all finished in well under seventeen hours and didn’t even look like they had just propelled their bodies 140.6 miles.  I couldn’t be prouder!

Our four newest Ironmen who truly are Crazy Joes!

While I was delighted that I was able to surprise my friends by being there to support and cheer them on their special day, I am more in awe of their accomplishments!  These four people have wonderfully large hearts, love and treasure their families and friends, and strive to set a good example in the world. I am proud to call them friends.

I definitely want to volunteer again at another Ironman, but I think that the next time I volunteer, I’m going to wear a race belt complete with bib # and my name emblazoned on it so that the competitors can shout my name when they thank me for doing what I do.