As I said in my last post, I'm headed to Boston for further analysis. The docs in Maine, while solid, just don't specialize enough. In Boston, I might end up with an academic-based doctor who can spend the time figuring me out. At this point, however, I don't know who I'm going to see. I have one recommendation from my hematologist, but I want to make sure we get this step right. As a result, I'm trying to leverage the internet. I'm calling on all readers and friends who know someone- or know someone who knows someone- to pass this along.
Specifically, I'm looking for a doctor who specializes in blood clotting disorders in otherwise healthy subjects- even better, someone who includes strong endurance athletes in their work- especially those who have no other freakin' symptoms.
Here's a rundown of what we know:
First, the short story. No other symptoms or risk factors- other than the clotting itself. In other words, a total mystery.
Now the long story. I'm a successful endurance athlete (triathlons), training 10-11 hours per week. Before the ER, had chest pain and felt like I was training at altitude. I occasionally spit up a small amount of bright red blood, generally after exercise. No family history or other typical risk factors (flights, dehydration, etc.). No DVTs. Lower right lung adalectisis. Both pulmonary arteries about 90% blocked, additional clotting, especially on the right side. Cardiac echos were fine. Mildly prominent prostate. Otherwise clear abdominal contrast CT scan. Pleural-based opacities within lower lobes. Upon arrival to the ER, thrombotic risk profile all within normal, including Factor 5 Leiden. Tested for PNH and to determine PSA, waiting for results, very doubtful. Currently on 12.5 mg. warfarin with an INR of 3.1. I'm happy to provide more details or doctors' files.
So for those reading this post who know a doctor who might have a suggestions, please pass this along. My future athletics may rely on finding the right person.
There's also a bigger picture here. First, if I have a genetic disorder, a day will come when my kids should know about it. Second, if this is a result of some sort of confluence of events or factors, there's a good chance other endurance athletes should know about it. Their lives may depend upon it.
Thank you in advance for your help.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Christmas Eve In July
I think it's about time for some good news- which started coming in about the time I wrote my last post, and hasn't let up since then.
I'll start with the medical stuff. First, the abdominal CT scan, looking for tumors, came back negative. That was a major relief. Even though two doctors told me they seriously doubted I'd be positive, it was still nerve-wracking. Next came the latest INR reading, which was a robust 3.1. To put this in perspective, 3.5 is about as extreme as they go, which is for those who have mechanical heart valves. Now I get to have two weeks between blood tests instead of one.
The downside to all of this is that we still don't know what caused the clots. That's important because it can determine how long I'm on Coumadin. I know it will be at least six months. But if we don't find a cause, it could be a lifetime. That means no more bike riding on the road, which means no triathlons, and other activities could be eliminated such as skiing, ocean sailing and trail running. Needless to say, we still want to find the cause. As a result, I'll go to Boston for some far more advanced analysis. The search for the most appropriate doctor will be the subject of my next post.
When I saw the pulmonologist last week, I asked again about activity limitations. He said I could start back on the path to recovery, keeping my heartrate to no more than 60-80% of max. Excitement building. So I can go for a run? Yes. Great! "But I wouldn't do a road race until you've been on Coumadin for 3 months." Wahoo!!! I burst out laughing. Are you joking? The suggestion that I could do a road race two months from now gave me a huge lift. Not that I have anything planned, or will even feel ready for one by that point, but just having the prospect of being able to handle that kind of activity was a great moment. I decided then and there I'd go for a run on Thursday morning.
On Monday, I returned to the pool for the first time. It was great to see everyone, even though I received a few worried glances- Are you sure you can do this? Are you going to start bleeding all over the place? During the summer, we swim at an outdoor 25m pool in Portland. The water is crisp, clear and clean. I hopped in, swam down to the other end, turned, and pushed off. The feeling of streamlining off the wall was great. I only went 600m, but it felt incredible to be back in the pool. On Tuesday, I did a light spin on the bike, and on Wednesday returned to the pool for 1400m. The increase was after the doc said I could safely pick things up.
That night, we were hit by a series of huge thunderstorms. Leah freaked out, so she took my place in bed and I ended upstairs in the guestroom. Between the storm, stuffy air, allowing the dog to take shelter in the room, and sleeping in a twin bed (not great for someone who is 6' 2"), I didn't sleep very well. But the real reason for the lack of sleep was the anticipation for the run. It was like Christmas Eve as a kid. I finally got up around 4 and watched a bit of a movie. Then at 5, I headed out. I decided to alternate half miles walk/run, times three. It's a flat out-and-back, and I know the mileage markers. Those first running strides made my day. Sure, the legs felt heavy, slow and unstable. But I was running. I didn't care about the speed, and in fact kept it slow to keep my heartrate down. I had an ear-to-ear grin the entire way. The sun came up through the morning mist. The temperature was a perfect 70 degrees. U2's It's a Beautiful Day played. And I was running down the road. It's hard to accurately describe the feeling. I was on top of the world. It was the best Christmas in July.
Since then, I've had a few more runs and swims. It still feels great.
....................................
“You remember the rules. Keep yourself safe. Put a little joy into your life and those around you who you think may merit it. And never ever- that’s never ever- pass up an opportunity to kiss someone you love.”
I'll start with the medical stuff. First, the abdominal CT scan, looking for tumors, came back negative. That was a major relief. Even though two doctors told me they seriously doubted I'd be positive, it was still nerve-wracking. Next came the latest INR reading, which was a robust 3.1. To put this in perspective, 3.5 is about as extreme as they go, which is for those who have mechanical heart valves. Now I get to have two weeks between blood tests instead of one.
The downside to all of this is that we still don't know what caused the clots. That's important because it can determine how long I'm on Coumadin. I know it will be at least six months. But if we don't find a cause, it could be a lifetime. That means no more bike riding on the road, which means no triathlons, and other activities could be eliminated such as skiing, ocean sailing and trail running. Needless to say, we still want to find the cause. As a result, I'll go to Boston for some far more advanced analysis. The search for the most appropriate doctor will be the subject of my next post.
When I saw the pulmonologist last week, I asked again about activity limitations. He said I could start back on the path to recovery, keeping my heartrate to no more than 60-80% of max. Excitement building. So I can go for a run? Yes. Great! "But I wouldn't do a road race until you've been on Coumadin for 3 months." Wahoo!!! I burst out laughing. Are you joking? The suggestion that I could do a road race two months from now gave me a huge lift. Not that I have anything planned, or will even feel ready for one by that point, but just having the prospect of being able to handle that kind of activity was a great moment. I decided then and there I'd go for a run on Thursday morning.
On Monday, I returned to the pool for the first time. It was great to see everyone, even though I received a few worried glances- Are you sure you can do this? Are you going to start bleeding all over the place? During the summer, we swim at an outdoor 25m pool in Portland. The water is crisp, clear and clean. I hopped in, swam down to the other end, turned, and pushed off. The feeling of streamlining off the wall was great. I only went 600m, but it felt incredible to be back in the pool. On Tuesday, I did a light spin on the bike, and on Wednesday returned to the pool for 1400m. The increase was after the doc said I could safely pick things up.
That night, we were hit by a series of huge thunderstorms. Leah freaked out, so she took my place in bed and I ended upstairs in the guestroom. Between the storm, stuffy air, allowing the dog to take shelter in the room, and sleeping in a twin bed (not great for someone who is 6' 2"), I didn't sleep very well. But the real reason for the lack of sleep was the anticipation for the run. It was like Christmas Eve as a kid. I finally got up around 4 and watched a bit of a movie. Then at 5, I headed out. I decided to alternate half miles walk/run, times three. It's a flat out-and-back, and I know the mileage markers. Those first running strides made my day. Sure, the legs felt heavy, slow and unstable. But I was running. I didn't care about the speed, and in fact kept it slow to keep my heartrate down. I had an ear-to-ear grin the entire way. The sun came up through the morning mist. The temperature was a perfect 70 degrees. U2's It's a Beautiful Day played. And I was running down the road. It's hard to accurately describe the feeling. I was on top of the world. It was the best Christmas in July.
Since then, I've had a few more runs and swims. It still feels great.
....................................
“You remember the rules. Keep yourself safe. Put a little joy into your life and those around you who you think may merit it. And never ever- that’s never ever- pass up an opportunity to kiss someone you love.”
Sunday, July 18, 2010
"You Were Very, Very Fortunate"
On July 4, 1939, at Yankee Stadium, Lou Gherig’s stepped to the microphone. Disabled by ALS, a disease that would claim his life two years later, he proclaimed, “Today, I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth. That I might have been given a bad break, but I’ve got an awful lot to live for.” Here’s a baseball and sports icon, thinking he’s lucky. He was giving up the game he loved, and knew his days were numbered. I’m beginning to understand.
Now don’t jump to any conclusions. At this point in time, I expect to be healthy and competing again. I don’t believe my life is in danger. However I’m beginning to understand just how close I did come to death. (It’s hard to write that word.) And this is helping me to look at my life in a different light, to appreciate and treasure and value that which is really most important.
Over the last two weeks, I’ve been busy with medical appointments and plenty of blood draws. The major task has been to get my INR up to an acceptable level. The International Normalization Ratio shows how easily your blood clots. Most people are under 1. By taking Coumadin, my target is somewhere around 2.5, which should prevent further clotting. Given the extensive clotting and blockages, in particular in both pulmonary arteries, a further clot on top of what I already have could easily be fatal. The pulmonary artery takes blood from the heart to the lungs, splitting in two, one for each lung. Then the blood vessels keep splitting and branching out until they are tiny capillaries, at which point the blood absorbs oxygen, goes back to the heart, then out to the entire body. If blood can’t get through the lungs, no oxygen gets to the body and all of the organs- including the brain and heart. That isn’t good. My INR was taking its sweet time getting up to an acceptable level. It was only 1.2 when I got out of the hospital, then 1.6 around July 4th, 1.7, then it actually dropped to 1.6. Throughout, we kept increasing the Coumadin dosage. The dosing is taken very seriously- the drug is also used as rat poison. Take too much, and you bleed out.
All of the testing for genetic blood clotting disorders came back negative. That’s good, however the cause remains a mystery. As a result, my doctor referred me to a hematologist. In doing so, he warned me that outside of major metro areas that allow for medical specialization, hematologists are also oncologists, and the office I would be visiting was at the Maine Center for Cancer Medicine. He doesn’t think I have cancer, and didn’t want me to panic when I saw where I was going. I thanked him- without fully appreciating his warning.
When we returned from a weekend in Castine, I had mail waiting for me. It was a welcome package and forms to fill in before my appointment. I sat down. Wow. I’m filling in forms for a visit to a cancer office. Cancer. Cancer. What am I getting into? To make matters worse, I started Googling “cancer and blood clots.” I went from bad to worse. Then Christine started doing the same. Now two of us were in a tailspin. Then Nick walked in the room and saw the brochure from the Cancer Center. He paused, looked up and essentially asked if I had cancer. We explained that that’s just where the office was, and we’re just checking anyway. I’m not sure how affected he was- as a typical 14 year old, he doesn’t show excessive emotion.
So on Wednesday, I went to the hematologist. Walking in was tough. Here’s the sign that greeted me: 
Checking in and going through the normal procedures was depressing. I prayed that I wasn’t going to become a long-term visitor of this office. They even took a picture of me for the computer file. I asked why, and she said, “we have a lot of people with the same name, so this helps.” Now that I think about it, I don’t buy it. That’s what birthdates, addresses and social security numbers are for. I wonder if it’s so they can see how patients’ appearances change over time- while they’re going through treatment. Not exactly a comforting thought.
To make a long story short, I’m going for another CT scan this week, this time for my lower abdomen- to look for tumors. As the doc in the hospital said, clots come from the legs and malignancies. I don’t have anything in my legs, so….. The hematologist really doesn’t think we’re going to find anything. At that point, we will probably do much more specific genetic blood work. My primary care doc completely agrees. Neither covers things up, so I trust their opinions. If I had a type of blood cancer, some of the earlier blood tests would have raised a red flag. And I still have zero additional symptoms. We just have to look for cancer so we can eliminate it as a possibility.
As we reviewed my CT scan from three weeks ago that showed the clots, the hematologist said to me, “you were very, very fortunate,” and explained that it’s very easy to die from what I had. That comment stuck with me. First, I began to realize how close I really came- something like 1.5 millimeters. That isn’t much. Second, and most importantly, I’ve turned around what he said. Instead of “were,” I say “are.” Or in the first person, “I am very, very fortunate.”
Being hit with significant bilateral pulmonary embolisms could prove to be one of the most influential experiences of my life. It has caused me to refocus back on my core values- my family, my health, and my work. In Christine, I have the best and most loving wife in the world. I have two great kids who are healthy. As a family, we are fortunate to live where we do and do the things we do. Nick and Leah will grow up and be great contributors to this world in some still to be determined way. By “great,” I don’t mean famous or monumental. I mean they will be positive contributors, even if it’s in a very localized way. And after all, isn’t that the most important thing we can leave behind?
I am incredibly fortunate to have done the physical things I have done. I love sports and competitions. Some of my clearest positive memories come from high school and college swimming. I don’t remember many times, but I do remember those moments- the great personal breakthrough races where I helped my team. As for triathlon, how many people even get to participate, much less achieve what I’ve done? Two Ironmans, tons of shorter races, all resulting in a spot earned on Team USA. I am incredibly fortunate to have progressed without injury. But honestly, if I had to choose between those accomplishments and all of the people I’ve met through the sport, there’s no doubt I’d take the latter. This is a group that wants to go faster than the next guy given every opportunity in the water or on the road- but when it’s over, helps each other out in any and every way possible. It’s a striking dichotomy and a great tribute to the sport. Triathlon can be a very lonely sport, and one that tests each individual almost daily during solo training sessions. It’s the unending support and camaraderie that gets us through to the next workout and race.
Again, don’t get me wrong- I have every intention of working hard and being competitive again. It will be done in a new light and in a new context, however. Greetings and conversations will be a bit longer and more sincere. There will be better balance in my life. I will look across the lake and view the road ahead with greater appreciation for how fortunate I am to be able to swim, bike and run at that moment and in that location.
And for my family, hugs last a little longer. I’m a better listener, especially for the meaning behind the words. And my life balance is better. I am incredibly fortunate to have had this scare, to have survived, and to have learned from it.
“You remember the rules. Keep yourself safe. Put a little joy into your life and those around you who you think may merit it. And never ever- that’s never ever- pass up an opportunity to kiss someone you love.”
Now don’t jump to any conclusions. At this point in time, I expect to be healthy and competing again. I don’t believe my life is in danger. However I’m beginning to understand just how close I did come to death. (It’s hard to write that word.) And this is helping me to look at my life in a different light, to appreciate and treasure and value that which is really most important.
Over the last two weeks, I’ve been busy with medical appointments and plenty of blood draws. The major task has been to get my INR up to an acceptable level. The International Normalization Ratio shows how easily your blood clots. Most people are under 1. By taking Coumadin, my target is somewhere around 2.5, which should prevent further clotting. Given the extensive clotting and blockages, in particular in both pulmonary arteries, a further clot on top of what I already have could easily be fatal. The pulmonary artery takes blood from the heart to the lungs, splitting in two, one for each lung. Then the blood vessels keep splitting and branching out until they are tiny capillaries, at which point the blood absorbs oxygen, goes back to the heart, then out to the entire body. If blood can’t get through the lungs, no oxygen gets to the body and all of the organs- including the brain and heart. That isn’t good. My INR was taking its sweet time getting up to an acceptable level. It was only 1.2 when I got out of the hospital, then 1.6 around July 4th, 1.7, then it actually dropped to 1.6. Throughout, we kept increasing the Coumadin dosage. The dosing is taken very seriously- the drug is also used as rat poison. Take too much, and you bleed out.
All of the testing for genetic blood clotting disorders came back negative. That’s good, however the cause remains a mystery. As a result, my doctor referred me to a hematologist. In doing so, he warned me that outside of major metro areas that allow for medical specialization, hematologists are also oncologists, and the office I would be visiting was at the Maine Center for Cancer Medicine. He doesn’t think I have cancer, and didn’t want me to panic when I saw where I was going. I thanked him- without fully appreciating his warning.
When we returned from a weekend in Castine, I had mail waiting for me. It was a welcome package and forms to fill in before my appointment. I sat down. Wow. I’m filling in forms for a visit to a cancer office. Cancer. Cancer. What am I getting into? To make matters worse, I started Googling “cancer and blood clots.” I went from bad to worse. Then Christine started doing the same. Now two of us were in a tailspin. Then Nick walked in the room and saw the brochure from the Cancer Center. He paused, looked up and essentially asked if I had cancer. We explained that that’s just where the office was, and we’re just checking anyway. I’m not sure how affected he was- as a typical 14 year old, he doesn’t show excessive emotion.
So on Wednesday, I went to the hematologist. Walking in was tough. Here’s the sign that greeted me:
Checking in and going through the normal procedures was depressing. I prayed that I wasn’t going to become a long-term visitor of this office. They even took a picture of me for the computer file. I asked why, and she said, “we have a lot of people with the same name, so this helps.” Now that I think about it, I don’t buy it. That’s what birthdates, addresses and social security numbers are for. I wonder if it’s so they can see how patients’ appearances change over time- while they’re going through treatment. Not exactly a comforting thought.
To make a long story short, I’m going for another CT scan this week, this time for my lower abdomen- to look for tumors. As the doc in the hospital said, clots come from the legs and malignancies. I don’t have anything in my legs, so….. The hematologist really doesn’t think we’re going to find anything. At that point, we will probably do much more specific genetic blood work. My primary care doc completely agrees. Neither covers things up, so I trust their opinions. If I had a type of blood cancer, some of the earlier blood tests would have raised a red flag. And I still have zero additional symptoms. We just have to look for cancer so we can eliminate it as a possibility.
As we reviewed my CT scan from three weeks ago that showed the clots, the hematologist said to me, “you were very, very fortunate,” and explained that it’s very easy to die from what I had. That comment stuck with me. First, I began to realize how close I really came- something like 1.5 millimeters. That isn’t much. Second, and most importantly, I’ve turned around what he said. Instead of “were,” I say “are.” Or in the first person, “I am very, very fortunate.”
Being hit with significant bilateral pulmonary embolisms could prove to be one of the most influential experiences of my life. It has caused me to refocus back on my core values- my family, my health, and my work. In Christine, I have the best and most loving wife in the world. I have two great kids who are healthy. As a family, we are fortunate to live where we do and do the things we do. Nick and Leah will grow up and be great contributors to this world in some still to be determined way. By “great,” I don’t mean famous or monumental. I mean they will be positive contributors, even if it’s in a very localized way. And after all, isn’t that the most important thing we can leave behind?
I am incredibly fortunate to have done the physical things I have done. I love sports and competitions. Some of my clearest positive memories come from high school and college swimming. I don’t remember many times, but I do remember those moments- the great personal breakthrough races where I helped my team. As for triathlon, how many people even get to participate, much less achieve what I’ve done? Two Ironmans, tons of shorter races, all resulting in a spot earned on Team USA. I am incredibly fortunate to have progressed without injury. But honestly, if I had to choose between those accomplishments and all of the people I’ve met through the sport, there’s no doubt I’d take the latter. This is a group that wants to go faster than the next guy given every opportunity in the water or on the road- but when it’s over, helps each other out in any and every way possible. It’s a striking dichotomy and a great tribute to the sport. Triathlon can be a very lonely sport, and one that tests each individual almost daily during solo training sessions. It’s the unending support and camaraderie that gets us through to the next workout and race.
Again, don’t get me wrong- I have every intention of working hard and being competitive again. It will be done in a new light and in a new context, however. Greetings and conversations will be a bit longer and more sincere. There will be better balance in my life. I will look across the lake and view the road ahead with greater appreciation for how fortunate I am to be able to swim, bike and run at that moment and in that location.
And for my family, hugs last a little longer. I’m a better listener, especially for the meaning behind the words. And my life balance is better. I am incredibly fortunate to have had this scare, to have survived, and to have learned from it.
....................................
“You remember the rules. Keep yourself safe. Put a little joy into your life and those around you who you think may merit it. And never ever- that’s never ever- pass up an opportunity to kiss someone you love.”
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Head Games
First things first. In general, I feel better. I've been on blood thinners for almost a week now, and am told the risk of a further clot forming is extremely low.
That space between my ears, however, is messed up. I know it's normal, but that doesn't make it easier. I've become a hypochondriac, sensing every little sensation, wondering if something is going to go wrong. When I walked out of the hospital on Sunday, I felt like a ticking time bomb. Since then, I've begun to educate myself on what happened. Most clots come from the legs, and can first present themselves as tight or swollen calf muscles. What's that twinge in my calf? Is a clot about to dislodge, travel to my lungs and plant itself on top of my 85% blocked artery and kill me? I've learned that getting a massage, a perfectly normal solution, can help release them. Why is my chest tight? Airplane rides right after a race can also increase the chances of a problem. Why do my ribs hurt? I feel fine, I'd love to go for a run. I hope I don't drop dead. I can't wait to get back in the pool. I'm told this is much like post-traumatic stress disorder and is normal. Which in a strange way, is comforting.
I'm discovering that there are enough endurance athletes out there that have clotting issues and PEs that some work is being done on the topic. It's incredible how with several "life challenges/tragedies" we find they are more common than we ever imagined. I've made contact with two other triathletes- a 59 yr old male in VT who is still on coumadin but is back competing, and a 29 year old woman in CA who is currently in the hospital. Marit just had a few great workouts, went to the doctor, and landed in the ER with PEs and DVTs (deep venous thrombosis, or clots in the legs). Misery loves company. And given the lack of knowledge among many doctors, more awareness of the issues is a good thing.
A few seemingly small lifestyle changes serve as reminders of what happened and how things will be different. Two days ago I ordered medical alert bracelets. If I'm in some sort of accident, medics need to know I'm on coumadin. I'm not who I (thought I) was. Yesterday I walked to CVS to buy an electric razor. While a small cut won't be life treatening, it likely won't stop easily. I'm not who I (thought I) was. I can't ride a bike on the road as long as I'm on coumadin. A fall could either be life threatening (head) or a major problem (an other internal bruising or bleeding). I'm not who I (thought I) was. I need to really think twice before I go sailing, and certainly racing. Cuts and bruises can certainly occur, and it might not be easy to get to shore. I'm not who I (thought I) was.
Without a doubt, all of this has certainly helped put things in perspective. Family is number one. At the height of the crisis, I thought I might never be with Christine again or that I would see my kids again. Those are terrifying thoughts. Last night I acted, in a small way, on this new perspective. We went to a Winterkids fundraiser that had a silent auction and one item in the live auction- two hours of snowboarding with 2-time gold medalist Seth Wescott at Sugarloaf, followed by diner at his restaurant. It made zero economic sense, but I bought/won it with friends. Telling Nick he was going to ride with Seth and seeing his expression was worth every nickle. This will be an experience he will never forget.
As for workouts, I've walked about 2 miles every day. I can't go harder because my lungs can't absorb oxygen, and therefore my organs can't get the oxygen they need. As the clots start to dissolve, I'll be able to do more. I don't know how long it will take, but it will get better.
As for Budapest, the race is off. In fact, as I said, I can't take my bike out on the road for a while- at least until I get off of the coumadin. While crashes are very rare, they do happen. We've all seen them or been part of one. It became a very easy decision to make when I understood the risks. I don't have to like it, but it was easy. I worked damn hard to make the team, and badly wanted to wear the uniform and compete at that level. But living is more important.
Finally, I'd like to share with you something that I hear at 4:00 most days. I never get tired of it. Our head of operations on the floor of the NYSE, who talks to us every two hours (if we listen in), is a great man. He has had several family tragedies in his life, losing his wife and daughter. 9/11 also hit him very hard. Since then, he closes each day with the following. I suggest you take his suggestion:
"And you know the rules- keep yourslf safe, put a little joy into your life and those around you who you think may merit it, and never ever- that's never ever- pass up an opportunity to kiss someone you love."
That space between my ears, however, is messed up. I know it's normal, but that doesn't make it easier. I've become a hypochondriac, sensing every little sensation, wondering if something is going to go wrong. When I walked out of the hospital on Sunday, I felt like a ticking time bomb. Since then, I've begun to educate myself on what happened. Most clots come from the legs, and can first present themselves as tight or swollen calf muscles. What's that twinge in my calf? Is a clot about to dislodge, travel to my lungs and plant itself on top of my 85% blocked artery and kill me? I've learned that getting a massage, a perfectly normal solution, can help release them. Why is my chest tight? Airplane rides right after a race can also increase the chances of a problem. Why do my ribs hurt? I feel fine, I'd love to go for a run. I hope I don't drop dead. I can't wait to get back in the pool. I'm told this is much like post-traumatic stress disorder and is normal. Which in a strange way, is comforting.
I'm discovering that there are enough endurance athletes out there that have clotting issues and PEs that some work is being done on the topic. It's incredible how with several "life challenges/tragedies" we find they are more common than we ever imagined. I've made contact with two other triathletes- a 59 yr old male in VT who is still on coumadin but is back competing, and a 29 year old woman in CA who is currently in the hospital. Marit just had a few great workouts, went to the doctor, and landed in the ER with PEs and DVTs (deep venous thrombosis, or clots in the legs). Misery loves company. And given the lack of knowledge among many doctors, more awareness of the issues is a good thing.
A few seemingly small lifestyle changes serve as reminders of what happened and how things will be different. Two days ago I ordered medical alert bracelets. If I'm in some sort of accident, medics need to know I'm on coumadin. I'm not who I (thought I) was. Yesterday I walked to CVS to buy an electric razor. While a small cut won't be life treatening, it likely won't stop easily. I'm not who I (thought I) was. I can't ride a bike on the road as long as I'm on coumadin. A fall could either be life threatening (head) or a major problem (an other internal bruising or bleeding). I'm not who I (thought I) was. I need to really think twice before I go sailing, and certainly racing. Cuts and bruises can certainly occur, and it might not be easy to get to shore. I'm not who I (thought I) was.
Without a doubt, all of this has certainly helped put things in perspective. Family is number one. At the height of the crisis, I thought I might never be with Christine again or that I would see my kids again. Those are terrifying thoughts. Last night I acted, in a small way, on this new perspective. We went to a Winterkids fundraiser that had a silent auction and one item in the live auction- two hours of snowboarding with 2-time gold medalist Seth Wescott at Sugarloaf, followed by diner at his restaurant. It made zero economic sense, but I bought/won it with friends. Telling Nick he was going to ride with Seth and seeing his expression was worth every nickle. This will be an experience he will never forget.
As for workouts, I've walked about 2 miles every day. I can't go harder because my lungs can't absorb oxygen, and therefore my organs can't get the oxygen they need. As the clots start to dissolve, I'll be able to do more. I don't know how long it will take, but it will get better.
As for Budapest, the race is off. In fact, as I said, I can't take my bike out on the road for a while- at least until I get off of the coumadin. While crashes are very rare, they do happen. We've all seen them or been part of one. It became a very easy decision to make when I understood the risks. I don't have to like it, but it was easy. I worked damn hard to make the team, and badly wanted to wear the uniform and compete at that level. But living is more important.
Finally, I'd like to share with you something that I hear at 4:00 most days. I never get tired of it. Our head of operations on the floor of the NYSE, who talks to us every two hours (if we listen in), is a great man. He has had several family tragedies in his life, losing his wife and daughter. 9/11 also hit him very hard. Since then, he closes each day with the following. I suggest you take his suggestion:
"And you know the rules- keep yourslf safe, put a little joy into your life and those around you who you think may merit it, and never ever- that's never ever- pass up an opportunity to kiss someone you love."
Monday, June 28, 2010
I am either a freak or a post-menopausal, overweight woman who smokes and just returned from Australia
There were moments when I feared for my life. That I wouldn't every see my kids again or live out all of my shared dreams with Christine.
So much has happened since my last post . At that point, I thought I would just live with the discomfort, see how things go, and gradually build up my training. But after this weekend, I'm grateful to be alive, see how things go, and look forward to taking a walk.
After encouraging training over the weekend, I took Monday off to go to Boston for work. On Tuesday I biked in the AM and swam at noon. Even did some good fly. On Wednesday morning, I went for an easy 6 mile run. The effort felt like a 7:15 pace, but Mr. Garmin said it was abut 8:40. I also had to walk three times. Walk. I walked not because of paid, but because I was gassed. [As a side story, near the end, I passed a guy who I see on the road many times a week. A little while ago we saw each other at an event, and realized we both know Angela. He was aware of her great achievements in triathlons. That morning, he said, "I saw you almost got Angela in that race (Pirate Tri). Nice work!" Sure, rub it in.] Wednesday noon brought a slow swim workout. All of these efforts made me feel like I was at altitude- I just couldn't get enough air in.
That afternoon, I had some sudden chest pain to the right of my sternum. Since it was to the right, I figured it wasn't a heart issue, so soldier on. I went out to dinner with my business partners. When I got home, it hurt too much to bend over to untie my shoes or even take a half breath. In addition, I have been spitting up more blood than last week. The next day I did a very easy bike on my trainer, being careful not to breathe so hard that I would cause pain in my chest. In the afternoon, Christine and I went to see our doctor, Jim. He was still thoroughly confused, but said he talked with a pulmonologist, who threw out the wild idea of a PE, or pulmonary embolism, or clot in my lungs. Jim said it didn't make sense, but was willing to try anything. He also said that in case it is, my exercise was now limited to tying my shoes until I got clearance to do more.
On Friday afternoon, we went to see the lung doc, who checked me out, performed some lung function tests, then sent me to another location for a contrast CT scan and more blood work. Last week's CT was to look for tumors. For this one, they injected a dye in my arm, at which point they had about 60 seconds to take pictures. It would allow them to see clots that wouldn't have shown up on last week's test. We did the test, and I returned to the waiting room. Minutes later, my world came crashing down.
The technician and radiologist came out and said they saw multiple clots in my lungs (I later learned 20+), and some were large. They had called an ambulance and were taking me to the Maine Medical Center ER. My brain immediately went to....clot, stroke, dead. My kids aren't with me, and I'll never see them again. This could be the end. I'll never be with Christine again. I can't be too dramatic here. Tears flowed.
There were times when I tried to stay calm. Panic wouldn't help anything. I remember the ambulance guy coming in and asking how I was doing. My response? "Other than that, how was the play, Mrs. Lincoln?"
As for the CT scan, both the lung doc and Jim were shocked by what they saw. It just doesn't fit. I have ZERO risk factors. The most common candidate for a PE? A post-menopausal, overweight woman who smokes and was just on a long flight. Yeah, that's me. I can't tell you how many times I was asked the same list of 20 questions in an attempt to find something that makes sense. Nothing fits. They drew a gallon of blood, some of which went to testing. We'll get results in a few days that might help figure this all out.
Back to the CT scan waiting room. They assured me that there was no risk of a clot going to my brain. You need a hole in your heart, between the left and right atriums for that to happen, and I had a clean echo last week. Fast forward to the ER. A very good friend, Ed, a cardiologist, was on site. It's normal for PE patients in the ER to get an echo, so the technician came in. As she was almost done, Ed arrived, and she pointed to one possible abnormality. He wasn't sure, but agreed to do a "bubble test" where they inject small bubbles in my IV. We watched on the screen as they filled one side of the heart, and sure enough, leaked through to the other side. A PFO is something that between 15 and 25% of the population has, most without every knowing it. When in utero, the lungs don't function, and there's a hole in the heart. That hole is closed by two overlapping flaps after birth, but not for me. PFOs are nothing to get worried about.....unless you have clots. Great. To make a long story short, it was another scare, makes me nervous, but intellectually is not a concern.
They moved me from the ER up to a room at 11PM. The next day, I saw Jim. He was incredibly relieved that we now know what's going on. I was, in turn, relieved to see his relief. I asked a bunch of questions and tried to remember the answers. The subject of Budapest came up. There are two primary risks with the trip. First is the flight- both the air pressure and the long inactivity. Second, a bike crash while on coumadin would not be good. Time has to go by for us to get a handle on this. At this point, I'd be thrilled to still go on the trip, put the uniform on, and just finish. It's funny to think I've had trouble coming up with a goal for this race. Now it's just to finish in one piece. As an aside, I dropped out of Urban Epic last week and Bethel last night. I'm leaving Fireman on the list in the event that we are able to go to Budapest.
On Saturday night, I had an echo on my legs. It was around 9PM, and my family had all gone home. As I lay there, she seemed to keep working on certain areas, pushing lots of buttons, etc. Given my recent track record, I was sure there was more bad news on its way. Fortunately, I tested negative for Deep Vein Thrombosis, or clots in the legs. While that's good, we're left wondering where they came from since 85% of clots come from the legs.
Most of my time in the hospital was spent in the waiting room or walking the loop around the floor. It was kind of funny how the nurses and doctors had to keep chasing me down to draw blood, take vitals, whatever. The whole time I had five leads taped to my front and a bulky wireless transmitter. This made sleeping rather difficult, in addition to the "just in case" IV sticking in my arm. At one point I was walking circles, carrying my transmitter and iPhone in the same hand. That caused some panic with my nurse as the phone caused my HR to read too high, setting off alarms.
Which reminds me of another funny story. While in the ER, I had all sorts of wires attached, and a monitor above my head that I could read. One of the numbers and graphs showed my respiratory rate. I found I could control the shape of the white line with my breath. So I slowed my breathing to 7 (per minute?), which would set off an alarm. I got a kick out of it during a pretty stressful time. Whatever works.
On Sunday morning, I learned I would go home that day. While talking with the doctor, I asked to see the CT scan from Friday. I wanted to visualize what was going on. Most of us have two lungs, and each has a pulmonary artery feeding it blood. My guess is they are about 2 cm. wide. Both of mine were/are about 85% blocked. Holy shit. That isn't far from 100% (not good). That visual will stick with me for a long time. So why was I able to function so well before, even on the day they took me to the ER? It's all about my training. To over-simplify, a "normal" person might use 30% of their lung capacity to walk down the road. If you take away 85%, they're in a deficit. I might need 10% to do the same. Take away 85%, and I still have room to operate. Training, however, also made things worse. We train ourselves to push beyond discomfort and previous limits. If we don't hurt, we aren't working hard enough. We feel something, and assume it will pass or we need to work though it. As a result, I didn't take all of this seriously enough. Now I know what it feels like, and I will not make that same mistake again.
Walking out of the hospital was tough. I felt incredibly vulnerable. The cord was being cut. What if? What if? Apparently, these feelings are very normal, and subside with time and as confidence rebuilds. I already feel better today. I can take a huge breath without pain, the first time in over two weeks. Physically, I know things will get better. Mentally, this is all pretty heavy now. It's life changing, but I realize it's too soon to know exactly how.
One final thing. Through the iPhone and Facebook, many good wishes were received. They were not only a great distraction, but also very comforting and greatly appreciated. Thank you all.
So much has happened since my last post . At that point, I thought I would just live with the discomfort, see how things go, and gradually build up my training. But after this weekend, I'm grateful to be alive, see how things go, and look forward to taking a walk.
After encouraging training over the weekend, I took Monday off to go to Boston for work. On Tuesday I biked in the AM and swam at noon. Even did some good fly. On Wednesday morning, I went for an easy 6 mile run. The effort felt like a 7:15 pace, but Mr. Garmin said it was abut 8:40. I also had to walk three times. Walk. I walked not because of paid, but because I was gassed. [As a side story, near the end, I passed a guy who I see on the road many times a week. A little while ago we saw each other at an event, and realized we both know Angela. He was aware of her great achievements in triathlons. That morning, he said, "I saw you almost got Angela in that race (Pirate Tri). Nice work!" Sure, rub it in.] Wednesday noon brought a slow swim workout. All of these efforts made me feel like I was at altitude- I just couldn't get enough air in.
That afternoon, I had some sudden chest pain to the right of my sternum. Since it was to the right, I figured it wasn't a heart issue, so soldier on. I went out to dinner with my business partners. When I got home, it hurt too much to bend over to untie my shoes or even take a half breath. In addition, I have been spitting up more blood than last week. The next day I did a very easy bike on my trainer, being careful not to breathe so hard that I would cause pain in my chest. In the afternoon, Christine and I went to see our doctor, Jim. He was still thoroughly confused, but said he talked with a pulmonologist, who threw out the wild idea of a PE, or pulmonary embolism, or clot in my lungs. Jim said it didn't make sense, but was willing to try anything. He also said that in case it is, my exercise was now limited to tying my shoes until I got clearance to do more.
On Friday afternoon, we went to see the lung doc, who checked me out, performed some lung function tests, then sent me to another location for a contrast CT scan and more blood work. Last week's CT was to look for tumors. For this one, they injected a dye in my arm, at which point they had about 60 seconds to take pictures. It would allow them to see clots that wouldn't have shown up on last week's test. We did the test, and I returned to the waiting room. Minutes later, my world came crashing down.
The technician and radiologist came out and said they saw multiple clots in my lungs (I later learned 20+), and some were large. They had called an ambulance and were taking me to the Maine Medical Center ER. My brain immediately went to....clot, stroke, dead. My kids aren't with me, and I'll never see them again. This could be the end. I'll never be with Christine again. I can't be too dramatic here. Tears flowed.
There were times when I tried to stay calm. Panic wouldn't help anything. I remember the ambulance guy coming in and asking how I was doing. My response? "Other than that, how was the play, Mrs. Lincoln?"
As for the CT scan, both the lung doc and Jim were shocked by what they saw. It just doesn't fit. I have ZERO risk factors. The most common candidate for a PE? A post-menopausal, overweight woman who smokes and was just on a long flight. Yeah, that's me. I can't tell you how many times I was asked the same list of 20 questions in an attempt to find something that makes sense. Nothing fits. They drew a gallon of blood, some of which went to testing. We'll get results in a few days that might help figure this all out.
Back to the CT scan waiting room. They assured me that there was no risk of a clot going to my brain. You need a hole in your heart, between the left and right atriums for that to happen, and I had a clean echo last week. Fast forward to the ER. A very good friend, Ed, a cardiologist, was on site. It's normal for PE patients in the ER to get an echo, so the technician came in. As she was almost done, Ed arrived, and she pointed to one possible abnormality. He wasn't sure, but agreed to do a "bubble test" where they inject small bubbles in my IV. We watched on the screen as they filled one side of the heart, and sure enough, leaked through to the other side. A PFO is something that between 15 and 25% of the population has, most without every knowing it. When in utero, the lungs don't function, and there's a hole in the heart. That hole is closed by two overlapping flaps after birth, but not for me. PFOs are nothing to get worried about.....unless you have clots. Great. To make a long story short, it was another scare, makes me nervous, but intellectually is not a concern.
They moved me from the ER up to a room at 11PM. The next day, I saw Jim. He was incredibly relieved that we now know what's going on. I was, in turn, relieved to see his relief. I asked a bunch of questions and tried to remember the answers. The subject of Budapest came up. There are two primary risks with the trip. First is the flight- both the air pressure and the long inactivity. Second, a bike crash while on coumadin would not be good. Time has to go by for us to get a handle on this. At this point, I'd be thrilled to still go on the trip, put the uniform on, and just finish. It's funny to think I've had trouble coming up with a goal for this race. Now it's just to finish in one piece. As an aside, I dropped out of Urban Epic last week and Bethel last night. I'm leaving Fireman on the list in the event that we are able to go to Budapest.
On Saturday night, I had an echo on my legs. It was around 9PM, and my family had all gone home. As I lay there, she seemed to keep working on certain areas, pushing lots of buttons, etc. Given my recent track record, I was sure there was more bad news on its way. Fortunately, I tested negative for Deep Vein Thrombosis, or clots in the legs. While that's good, we're left wondering where they came from since 85% of clots come from the legs.
Most of my time in the hospital was spent in the waiting room or walking the loop around the floor. It was kind of funny how the nurses and doctors had to keep chasing me down to draw blood, take vitals, whatever. The whole time I had five leads taped to my front and a bulky wireless transmitter. This made sleeping rather difficult, in addition to the "just in case" IV sticking in my arm. At one point I was walking circles, carrying my transmitter and iPhone in the same hand. That caused some panic with my nurse as the phone caused my HR to read too high, setting off alarms.
Which reminds me of another funny story. While in the ER, I had all sorts of wires attached, and a monitor above my head that I could read. One of the numbers and graphs showed my respiratory rate. I found I could control the shape of the white line with my breath. So I slowed my breathing to 7 (per minute?), which would set off an alarm. I got a kick out of it during a pretty stressful time. Whatever works.
On Sunday morning, I learned I would go home that day. While talking with the doctor, I asked to see the CT scan from Friday. I wanted to visualize what was going on. Most of us have two lungs, and each has a pulmonary artery feeding it blood. My guess is they are about 2 cm. wide. Both of mine were/are about 85% blocked. Holy shit. That isn't far from 100% (not good). That visual will stick with me for a long time. So why was I able to function so well before, even on the day they took me to the ER? It's all about my training. To over-simplify, a "normal" person might use 30% of their lung capacity to walk down the road. If you take away 85%, they're in a deficit. I might need 10% to do the same. Take away 85%, and I still have room to operate. Training, however, also made things worse. We train ourselves to push beyond discomfort and previous limits. If we don't hurt, we aren't working hard enough. We feel something, and assume it will pass or we need to work though it. As a result, I didn't take all of this seriously enough. Now I know what it feels like, and I will not make that same mistake again.
Walking out of the hospital was tough. I felt incredibly vulnerable. The cord was being cut. What if? What if? Apparently, these feelings are very normal, and subside with time and as confidence rebuilds. I already feel better today. I can take a huge breath without pain, the first time in over two weeks. Physically, I know things will get better. Mentally, this is all pretty heavy now. It's life changing, but I realize it's too soon to know exactly how.
One final thing. Through the iPhone and Facebook, many good wishes were received. They were not only a great distraction, but also very comforting and greatly appreciated. Thank you all.
Friday, June 18, 2010
One Hell of a Week
Whoa. My last race was one to forget, and this week was one that I hope to never repeat. It was scary, reflective, and painful. And frankly, I feel odd throwing it out there for all to read about. But given that it will likely have an impact on my season and partially explains last Sunday's race, it needs to be told. I won't include every detail, but you'll get the picture.
As I mentioned in my last post, I had to quit Saturday's brick run because of the widespread and intense pain/cramping all around my torso. Sunday's sprint tri was a lousy effort, but free of pain. On Monday night, I was feeling uncomfortable in my torso, and asked Christine for a short massage. It felt good when she was doing it, but caused considerable pain and discomfort during the night. It was hard to breathe- I certainly couldn't take a deep breath- and my ribs hurt all around.
So that got me to my doctor, a great D.O., who I've been with for a long time. He poked and prodded front and back, all around my ribs, and tried to see if he could trigger the pain- without success. He drew blood, then sent me for a chest x-ray and said I'd also get an echocardiogram.
That night was the worst of my life. The only position without serious pain was my left side, but my shoulder became very uncomfortable. I took Tylenol or Advil every two hours. At about 2 AM, I tried to roll over, and got stuck. I couldn't move and could only take short, shallow breaths. It was frightening to think of all of the things that could be wrong and what they would mean. While irrational, I kept picturing Lance Armstrong's chest x-ray with all of the golf ball tumors. And triathlon, while on my mind, was WAAAAY down on the list. Sitting or standing was tolerable, so I messed around on the computer for 90 minutes. At that point, I was able to get another hour of sleep.
Wednesday night was a little better, and Thursday was much better. The further away I get from the massage or prodding, the better. Today I had a CT scan in the beautiful new Mercy facility on the Fore River. (By the way, I was in the waiting room for just 2 minutes- I was amazed by the efficiency).
So after blood tests and three diagnostic tests, what's going on? No idea. With only a couple of very minor exceptions, everything looks great. As my doc said, "The good news is we don't know what's going on. The bad news is we don't know what's going on." I have another blood test next week to see how one particular reading has changed. Other than that, his orders are to be my own judge of effort. After taking Mon-Wed off completely as planned, I swam a really slow 1,000 yards yesterday and ran a really slow 2.3 miles today. Both times it took a while to be able to breathe normally. Tomorrow I'll sit on my trainer in the garage (I'm SO excited!) and go for as long as I can tolerate it mentally.
As for Urban Epic, I'll make a judgement at the end of next week. At that point, I'll have two weeks to go and I'll know if I can train up to the level I need to. I don't want to do the race if I'm not in good form- I'd rather wait for Bethel.
In the very remote chance something is really wrong, I don't want to be one of those black swans who is incredibly healthy and keels over. And if this is just going to take some time, that's OK. The big race is in September, and my base is so strong that I can afford to go through this down time.
I look forward to getting past this week.
As I mentioned in my last post, I had to quit Saturday's brick run because of the widespread and intense pain/cramping all around my torso. Sunday's sprint tri was a lousy effort, but free of pain. On Monday night, I was feeling uncomfortable in my torso, and asked Christine for a short massage. It felt good when she was doing it, but caused considerable pain and discomfort during the night. It was hard to breathe- I certainly couldn't take a deep breath- and my ribs hurt all around.
So that got me to my doctor, a great D.O., who I've been with for a long time. He poked and prodded front and back, all around my ribs, and tried to see if he could trigger the pain- without success. He drew blood, then sent me for a chest x-ray and said I'd also get an echocardiogram.
That night was the worst of my life. The only position without serious pain was my left side, but my shoulder became very uncomfortable. I took Tylenol or Advil every two hours. At about 2 AM, I tried to roll over, and got stuck. I couldn't move and could only take short, shallow breaths. It was frightening to think of all of the things that could be wrong and what they would mean. While irrational, I kept picturing Lance Armstrong's chest x-ray with all of the golf ball tumors. And triathlon, while on my mind, was WAAAAY down on the list. Sitting or standing was tolerable, so I messed around on the computer for 90 minutes. At that point, I was able to get another hour of sleep.
Wednesday night was a little better, and Thursday was much better. The further away I get from the massage or prodding, the better. Today I had a CT scan in the beautiful new Mercy facility on the Fore River. (By the way, I was in the waiting room for just 2 minutes- I was amazed by the efficiency).
So after blood tests and three diagnostic tests, what's going on? No idea. With only a couple of very minor exceptions, everything looks great. As my doc said, "The good news is we don't know what's going on. The bad news is we don't know what's going on." I have another blood test next week to see how one particular reading has changed. Other than that, his orders are to be my own judge of effort. After taking Mon-Wed off completely as planned, I swam a really slow 1,000 yards yesterday and ran a really slow 2.3 miles today. Both times it took a while to be able to breathe normally. Tomorrow I'll sit on my trainer in the garage (I'm SO excited!) and go for as long as I can tolerate it mentally.
As for Urban Epic, I'll make a judgement at the end of next week. At that point, I'll have two weeks to go and I'll know if I can train up to the level I need to. I don't want to do the race if I'm not in good form- I'd rather wait for Bethel.
In the very remote chance something is really wrong, I don't want to be one of those black swans who is incredibly healthy and keels over. And if this is just going to take some time, that's OK. The big race is in September, and my base is so strong that I can afford to go through this down time.
I look forward to getting past this week.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Race Report: Pirate Tri- One to Forget
It bothers me to write this report, but it needs to be done. I learned something today, but it had nothing to do with the race. It has to do with training and rest.
Today was my sixth race in four weeks. Week one had two tough bike time trials. Week two had a TT and then a 4 mi road race one hour later. Week three was Mooseman, which turned into a 17 mi bike and 10k run. I've done a descent job sticking with my mid-week training, but the races did have an influence, especially this week. I just didn't have the speed or power that I'm used to. At the same time, I've been sleeping very little for several weeks, partially a result of racing (tough to turn the brain off), partially due to training (early mornings), and partially due to stress at work (wondering what the headlines would be when I wake up).
Then this past Friday, I went for a massage to help with recovery and injury prevention. My mistake was going to my #2 LMT because #1 wasn't available. He beat the crap out of me. That night, I was tossing and turning all night long, unable to get comfortable or even take a really deep breath. The next morning, I was sore getting out of bed. I went out on my scheduled 90 minute ride, which was fine- not great, it seemed a bit tough, but good enough. Then I attempted a 4.2 mile run. I wanted to hit the first 1.5 at race pace because that was my focus for today's race. After just a few strides, my entire torso was cramping up. I made it about 200 yards and had to stop. Hands on knees, deep breaths, try again, this time slower. After 50 yards, I stopped, made a 180, and walked home. I quit. I can't remember the last time I did that. I've cut workouts short, gone slower than planned, but I always did something. I could not have even run 8 min miles, so I bagged the run. Due to a forgiving family schedule, I was able to lie down for about 2 1/2 hours, including an hour of sleep and some World Cup soccer. I felt a little better at that point.
Last night, it still bothered me to take a deep breath. Getting out of bed this morning was better, but I still felt it. I got to the race early so I could get in a short bike and run and probe my body to see what was going on. It was certainly better than yesterday, but my overall energy wasn't there. As the time wore on, my torso felt better.
I swam the course for warmup and felt OK. Then we had the prerace meeting on the beach. As I was wallowing in self pity, a mother and daughter from Camp Sunshine addressed the crowd. The little girl, age 7, was diagnosed with something that sounded like cancer in the retina of her eye when she was 3 months old. She's been through so much in her young life, including having her eye removed. It was a heart wrenching story to begin with, but here's the kicker- her name was Leah, the same as my 8 year old. Life isn't fair, and that easily could be my little girl up there. We are so fortunate to have two healthy kids. That was a big wake up call for me. Who am I to complain about being tired and sore when she's been through so much more?!
The waves went off every three minutes, with the women 30 seconds behind the men. There were a bunch of people I wanted to be competitive with (beat), including Bob (my wave) and Ange (30 seconds back). I hit the first half of the swim pretty well, not seeing any of the lovely pink caps that our wave wore, which frankly, I expected. I got into the prior wave before the first turn and made it through them. At the second turn, heading back to the beach, it was far more crowded, so I took a wide berth. It added distance, but allowed me to swim without dodging nearly as many swimmers. At one point, I passed someone and basically caught their head in my armpit as I recovered my left arm, pushing them underwater. I felt terrible, but there wasn't much I could do about it. The entire return trip, the lower half of my body (which shouldn't be working), was incredibly tired and uncomfortable. I badly wanted to just take it easy getting back, but knew I couldn't. I finally finished in a long 7:53, which I'll take.
Out on the bike, the power just wasn't there. Going into the race, I wanted a more controlled effort so I could leave something for the run. My recent races have had very hard efforts, and I learned at Mooseman I need to control it better. But I couldn't even get respectable numbers. My breathing was very heavy and my HR was through the roof. My power numbers confirm the lousy results- normalized power was just 258w, compared to 274 at Polarbear and 281 at Mooseman. Bob finally caught me as we hit the access road and we had a little fun on the way back in. He ended up with a gap of 10+ seconds at the end, which I was able to make up in T2.
Out on the run, Bob put a quick 10 yard gap on me and then very slowly extended it to about 20 yards over the next 2 miles. Then at the water stop, he grabbed a cup, slowed a bit, and the gap was cut in half. I thought for a bit I'd be able to get him, but that didn't last long. Soon after, I hear someone behind be yell, "Go Ange!" Damn. There she was. Our wave started 30 seconds ahead of hers, so I knew she was going to be inside that gap. That took what little life I had left out of me, and she passed me with about 1/2 mile left to the finish.
For a small local race, the field had some great competition. Many did a 70.3 last Sunday, and to go fast for this race is impressive. I ended up 12th OA, and 2/41 in my AG. Looking at the splits, my bike should have been about 2 minutes faster, and the run at least 30 seconds better.
Those of us that are interested in training schedules know that periodization is a cornerstone. And it's a concept I've ignored. You need to rest and cut back on training every 4 weeks or so. In general, since I got back in the pool in February, I've been around 10-11 hrs/wk. Low weeks are 8 hours, and generally due to scheduling issues. There also haven't been many of those.
As a result, I'm going to take the next three days completely off. No training at all. To put that in perspective, I've taken three days off over the last four weeks. On Thursday and Friday, I'll do some light training, then go long and easy on the weekend. I get caught in the same trap that many do- we start good training in December, get to peak form for early May, and then expect to perform well through September. It just isn't realistic. My big race is September 12, so taking a few days won't hurt that- in fact, it could help. I'd like to have a really good showing at Urban Epic on July 10 to atone for today. It's a more competitive race and fun venue. So this little break will allow for a 3 week, logical, thoughtful training period.
Congratulations to all of those who are putting up some great results in local races as well as races that attract huge international talent. It's great to see Mainers doing so well. I still hope we can get a strong contingent at the USAT National Championships next year in Burlington, VT. Qualifying for the Oly race isn't too tough, and I don't think there's a standard for the sprint. Put on your schedule!
Today was my sixth race in four weeks. Week one had two tough bike time trials. Week two had a TT and then a 4 mi road race one hour later. Week three was Mooseman, which turned into a 17 mi bike and 10k run. I've done a descent job sticking with my mid-week training, but the races did have an influence, especially this week. I just didn't have the speed or power that I'm used to. At the same time, I've been sleeping very little for several weeks, partially a result of racing (tough to turn the brain off), partially due to training (early mornings), and partially due to stress at work (wondering what the headlines would be when I wake up).
Then this past Friday, I went for a massage to help with recovery and injury prevention. My mistake was going to my #2 LMT because #1 wasn't available. He beat the crap out of me. That night, I was tossing and turning all night long, unable to get comfortable or even take a really deep breath. The next morning, I was sore getting out of bed. I went out on my scheduled 90 minute ride, which was fine- not great, it seemed a bit tough, but good enough. Then I attempted a 4.2 mile run. I wanted to hit the first 1.5 at race pace because that was my focus for today's race. After just a few strides, my entire torso was cramping up. I made it about 200 yards and had to stop. Hands on knees, deep breaths, try again, this time slower. After 50 yards, I stopped, made a 180, and walked home. I quit. I can't remember the last time I did that. I've cut workouts short, gone slower than planned, but I always did something. I could not have even run 8 min miles, so I bagged the run. Due to a forgiving family schedule, I was able to lie down for about 2 1/2 hours, including an hour of sleep and some World Cup soccer. I felt a little better at that point.
Last night, it still bothered me to take a deep breath. Getting out of bed this morning was better, but I still felt it. I got to the race early so I could get in a short bike and run and probe my body to see what was going on. It was certainly better than yesterday, but my overall energy wasn't there. As the time wore on, my torso felt better.
I swam the course for warmup and felt OK. Then we had the prerace meeting on the beach. As I was wallowing in self pity, a mother and daughter from Camp Sunshine addressed the crowd. The little girl, age 7, was diagnosed with something that sounded like cancer in the retina of her eye when she was 3 months old. She's been through so much in her young life, including having her eye removed. It was a heart wrenching story to begin with, but here's the kicker- her name was Leah, the same as my 8 year old. Life isn't fair, and that easily could be my little girl up there. We are so fortunate to have two healthy kids. That was a big wake up call for me. Who am I to complain about being tired and sore when she's been through so much more?!
The waves went off every three minutes, with the women 30 seconds behind the men. There were a bunch of people I wanted to be competitive with (beat), including Bob (my wave) and Ange (30 seconds back). I hit the first half of the swim pretty well, not seeing any of the lovely pink caps that our wave wore, which frankly, I expected. I got into the prior wave before the first turn and made it through them. At the second turn, heading back to the beach, it was far more crowded, so I took a wide berth. It added distance, but allowed me to swim without dodging nearly as many swimmers. At one point, I passed someone and basically caught their head in my armpit as I recovered my left arm, pushing them underwater. I felt terrible, but there wasn't much I could do about it. The entire return trip, the lower half of my body (which shouldn't be working), was incredibly tired and uncomfortable. I badly wanted to just take it easy getting back, but knew I couldn't. I finally finished in a long 7:53, which I'll take.
Out on the bike, the power just wasn't there. Going into the race, I wanted a more controlled effort so I could leave something for the run. My recent races have had very hard efforts, and I learned at Mooseman I need to control it better. But I couldn't even get respectable numbers. My breathing was very heavy and my HR was through the roof. My power numbers confirm the lousy results- normalized power was just 258w, compared to 274 at Polarbear and 281 at Mooseman. Bob finally caught me as we hit the access road and we had a little fun on the way back in. He ended up with a gap of 10+ seconds at the end, which I was able to make up in T2.
Out on the run, Bob put a quick 10 yard gap on me and then very slowly extended it to about 20 yards over the next 2 miles. Then at the water stop, he grabbed a cup, slowed a bit, and the gap was cut in half. I thought for a bit I'd be able to get him, but that didn't last long. Soon after, I hear someone behind be yell, "Go Ange!" Damn. There she was. Our wave started 30 seconds ahead of hers, so I knew she was going to be inside that gap. That took what little life I had left out of me, and she passed me with about 1/2 mile left to the finish.
For a small local race, the field had some great competition. Many did a 70.3 last Sunday, and to go fast for this race is impressive. I ended up 12th OA, and 2/41 in my AG. Looking at the splits, my bike should have been about 2 minutes faster, and the run at least 30 seconds better.
Those of us that are interested in training schedules know that periodization is a cornerstone. And it's a concept I've ignored. You need to rest and cut back on training every 4 weeks or so. In general, since I got back in the pool in February, I've been around 10-11 hrs/wk. Low weeks are 8 hours, and generally due to scheduling issues. There also haven't been many of those.
As a result, I'm going to take the next three days completely off. No training at all. To put that in perspective, I've taken three days off over the last four weeks. On Thursday and Friday, I'll do some light training, then go long and easy on the weekend. I get caught in the same trap that many do- we start good training in December, get to peak form for early May, and then expect to perform well through September. It just isn't realistic. My big race is September 12, so taking a few days won't hurt that- in fact, it could help. I'd like to have a really good showing at Urban Epic on July 10 to atone for today. It's a more competitive race and fun venue. So this little break will allow for a 3 week, logical, thoughtful training period.
Congratulations to all of those who are putting up some great results in local races as well as races that attract huge international talent. It's great to see Mainers doing so well. I still hope we can get a strong contingent at the USAT National Championships next year in Burlington, VT. Qualifying for the Oly race isn't too tough, and I don't think there's a standard for the sprint. Put on your schedule!
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