The Gloves and the Little Girl

 

                                    The Gloves and the Little Girl

 

There were no dark clouds foreshadowing doom before I began the bike portion of the Ironman race.  I had been tapering for two weeks prior to race day, had biked 112 miles three times before the event, and was better prepared for the big day than I had ever been before.  And yet by mile 70 the 100 degree heat was getting to me and I had to get off of my bike and lay down because my legs were shaking and my stomach had cramped up.  It was either get off the bike on my own volition or risk passing out and falling off the bike.  I laid in the grass for 20 minutes and, only when my head wasn't spinning any more, did I pick up my bike and try to ride again.  I was so exhausted that for the rest of the race whenever I hit a steep hill I had to walk up it.  This, by the way, is anathema to any triathlete.  You should not dismount from your bike until your 112 miles are up.  By the time that I had reached the aid station at mile 80 I had to lay down again and, as I did, I could see my dreams of finishing the race beginning to fade.  I wallowed in self-pity for a while and then rolled over on my stomach, forcing my way up onto my hands and knees, finally getting back onto my feet in the most ungraceful and humiliating of ways.  The volunteers at the aid station had set up food and drink for the triathletes and so I asked for a cup of ice water, poured it over my head to give myself some temporary relief from the heat, and then remounted my bike to slog on.  Even after this episode of self-inflicted torture was over I still felt like I could finish the race.

And then, at about mile 90, I felt my tongue swelling up.  The back of my throat was so dry that it felt like it was collapsing or constricting so that I was having some difficulty breathing.  The 100 degree heat was relentless and I had to stop the bike again.  There is a gazebo at the front of this small neighborhood called Old Taylor Place and, because I had done my training on the Ironman course, I knew that this was a safe place for me to go and lie down for a while.  After passing out for about a half hour I woke up and willed myself to walk back to the road.  A family was there watching the bicyclists ride by and their little girl had drifted behind the distracted adults. The little girl noticed me as I walked by and she waved at me.  Now I am a big guy and scary looking even when I am not covered with sweat and my face bright red from the exertions of the day.  The sunglasses and helmet make me look even more intimidating and so I was impressed with the bravado of the little girl who was unafraid of the scary looking Ironman. I self-consciously waved back at her.  Then she asked, with the innocence of a five-year-old, ‘did you have a nice nap?’  It was the cutest thing that I have ever seen and the question lightened my spirits.  The little girl then gave me a Popsicle from her own stash of treats.  I took it, grateful for the combination of ice and sugar, and eagerly ate it, full in the knowledge that the race organizers would penalize me for receiving outside help while on the course if they found out.  I didn’t really care if I was penalized because I knew that there was no way that I was going to be able to run a marathon after this horrible bike ride and so I knew that I wasn’t going to be able to finish the race.  After thanking the little girl and her mother for the Popsicle I got back on my bike and made my way back to Louisville.

Once I got back to the transition area I went to the medical tent to get an IV.  Even after laying on the cot for an hour I still wasn't feeling well and so the nurse put a second bag of saline water into me.  Finally I started to feel better and, after another half hour went by, I was fully hydrated and the nurse took the needle out of my arm.  I left the medical tent to begin the long walk back to pick up my bike and my other stuff and made my way back to my car.  There was no way that I was going to let my triathlon career end on such a sour note and so I decided, even before I got home, that I was going to give the Ironman another throw in the following year.  And I was dedicating my race to the brave little girl who wasn’t afraid to help the scary looking man who was in distress.

While training over the winter I had time to reflect on the horrors of the heat on Ironman Day but I also remembered the angel who had helped me. I decided that if I saw the little girl and her mother again then I was going to stop biking for a few minutes and give her a present.  There isn’t a lot of room on a racing bike for gifts, and I wasn’t sure that I would even see the little girl on the course again, and so the only thing that I could think of to give her if I saw her was my riding gloves.  I had ordered these expensive gloves especially for race day.  They had the word ‘Ironman” stitched onto the side and that alone made them unusual.  Sure enough, mother and daughter were out on the course, again in front of their house on Old Taylor Place.  They didn’t recognize me at first and so I introduced myself while taking off my official looking Ironman gloves.  As I handed my gloves to the little girl I thanked her again for the Popsicle and the mother said that they had Popsicle’s again this year.  I responded with “Thanks, but I don’t need help this year because I am feeling pretty good.”  With that I remounted my bike and continued on to Louisville so that I could begin the marathon.

I did finish the race but I had been disappointed that the little girl didn’t seem to appreciate my gift of the special gloves.  The gloves were worn and sweaty and maybe it wasn’t as cool as I thought it was to receive them as a gift.  In my view, the men and women who compete in the race are warriors and I thought that any piece of equipment that we used on Ironman Day would be treasured. Apparently the little girl didn’t react because she was naturally reserved but her mother found me on Facebook the following week and told she told me that her daughter was so proud to own the gloves of an Ironman that she brought them to school the very next day for show and tell.  It made me feel good that I could return her act of kindness and that the gift of the gloves was truly appreciated.

Bike Accident

                The best time for me to ride my bike is before dawn.  Although it is still dark I have put three blinking lights on my bicycle and so if a motorist doesn’t see me it is because he is willfully trying not to see me.  There are few cars on the road before dawn and I like my chances much better that riding in the afternoon when there are a string of cars tailing me.  Although the first car sees me there is no guarantee that the second, third, or fourth car will see me.  Between the lights on my bike, and the reflector jacket that I wear, I feel comparatively safe biking in the morning as opposed to the afternoon.

Unfortunately there is more to worry about on the road than cars.  One morning I was thrown from my bike while doing my usual route.  I hit a small animal on the road and, while the bike stopped suddenly, my body kept going and I hurdled over the handle bars.  I don’t even know what I hit because it happened so quickly and it was still dark outside.  All I know is that there was a dark shadow under my wheel, and that was all.  I knew that I was hurt badly and I writhed in pain while lying on the street.  Slowly I worked up the strength to pull my bike off of the road.  Hoping that the accident was just a temporary inconvenience, for I had been thrown from my bike before and had cracked a couple of ribs, this time I knew that it was more serious.  The pain would not go away because I had pulled my ACL muscle away from my shoulder.  I needed surgery to sew my arm back into place.

As a result of being thrown from my bike I had a third degree dislocation of my shoulder and my ribs have been bruised.  It hurt when I breathed deeply and sneezing threw me into intense seizures of pain.  I had scabs on my elbow, knee, and lower leg from where I hit the pavement and skidded to a stop.  My clavicle bone has been separated from my shoulder because the ligaments that hold the two together had been severed.  For two weeks I couldn’t tie my own shoes or put on my own shirt because it put me in too much pain to stretch my arm and shoulders to complete these simple tasks.  My wife, to whom I owe all of my success for the relentless support that she has given me, helped me get dressed every morning so that I could go to work.

After laying in the grass for a while I finally picked up my bike and started to walk home.  The first two times that I tried to walk I became light headed and had to lie back down in the grass again.  Only on the third try did I successfully work up the strength to make the long walk home.  My daughter drove me to the hospital but I couldn’t bend down to get into the car and so I had to lie down in the back.  Once at the emergency room the nurses had to cut off my shirt to take x-rays and then they pumped me full of painkillers and muscle relaxers.  The next four days were filled with nothing but sleeping and watching television and that was difficult for me since I am hyperactive and always like to be moving.

Here is the crazy part.  I decided to do the Ironman again that year in spite of being hurt.  This is not a sport for well people and I proved that by getting back on my bike within a week of the accident.  At first I rode with one arm and, over the course of the next three months when the race would be held, I found I could push down on the handlebars of my bike without pain.  If I tried to pick anything up that was heavier than two textbooks then I simply cannot do it.  But I could still bike and run.

On race day I did the dog paddle with my right arm and powered through with my left arm and my legs.  It took me two hours to finish the swim but I did it.  The sick thing was that while I was in line to get in the water I tried to hide my shoulder from the race officials.  If they saw that my clavicle was sticking up away from my shoulder, in a position that is not natural, then they would not allow me to participate.  I got on the bike all right but couldn’t finish the whole 112 miles.  The two hour swim had taken too much out of me.  When I stopped biking after 70 miles and gave up my chip at the medical tent I told the doctor that my clavicle was separated from my shoulder.  He said that he was surprised that I had made it this far..  I thought so too and was pleased with my effort even though I didn’t finish the race that year.  The story of my accident and my one-armed swim in the Ohio River would be one that I would tell over and over through the years because I was so proud of taking the pain.  

The doctor who performed my corrective surgery two weeks after the Ironman said that rehab was going to be painful but that I shouldn’t be too worried about it as I had waited three months to have the operation.  The pain that I would feel wouldn’t be any worse that what I had just been through.  He said it with a tinge of admiration but the doctor also gave me a couple of side glances, trying to figure just who did I think I was, delaying major surgery so that I could participate in the world’s most difficult sport.  The he reattached my clavicle to my shoulder using cadaver ligaments to keep the whole thing in place.  I went through physical therapy with the help of a nurse at first but then thought that I knew better how to get my body into shape.  I stopped going to the clinic and instead went back to the gym.  The next Ironman Louisville was less than a year away and I wanted to start training for it.

               

Sent from Mail for Windows 10