“Wow, why do bad things always happen to you all at once?” my friends asked me, each in their own way, yesterday.
I half-heartedly joked, “I guess I must have done something really bad in a former life.”
Chaos Theory would say that bad things just happen, and, in the grand scheme of infinite possibilities, these coincidental happenings aren’t so rare. I’m just an insignificant speck in the universe. Why would anyone or anything want to target me for unnecessary torture?
I’ve become a robot in saying, “It is what it is.” Nature just is. People just are. We create stories and emotions around the facts. We break our own hearts. We give ourselves reasons to be sad. Nature isn’t fair. People expect fairness.
I’m guilty of creating stories. Even when my company reorganized and I found myself placed in a position I never applied for, that ignored my core skills, I thought, “I’ll make the best of it. It’ll be good for me.” There were a lot of details as to why this position didn’t work out, but I found myself miserable, and further sad that I was miserable. When the truth finally outed itself in a performance review At the end of this week, my new boss decided to give me two months to find something else. So, great. I currently face yet another potential layoff situation.
All of those toxic emotions I’d been plagued with during my months of unemployment oozed back into my brain: feelings of inadequacy (if only I’d done X,Y,Z), feelings of fear (will I be out on the street if I don’t find something?), feelings of anger (at myself and others). What good were these feelings doing me? I tried to focus on the positive and on reaching out to folks to find myself a new opportunity, either within the company or otherwise.
The second blow hit while I was already weakened. I’d been chasing the doctor down for days, trying to get the results of my biopsy. I was beginning to think that, maybe, no news was good news, and that it probably wasn’t anything to worry about. Instead, I got a call Friday afternoon. The results found that one nodule, the big one on my left side, was benign, but, on the right, the results were indeterminate, meaning that there was probably some malignancy. So, long story short, she recommended that I schedule surgery for a total thyroidectomy, and said that I would have to take hormones for the rest of my life. Awesome.
I know that nothing and no one is behind this, that nature’s just throwing punches and they’re landing square in my gut. Still, I’m tired of being this “tough girl” that everyone thinks I am. I’m tired of making jokes and shrugging things off, and repeating my robotic mantra of, “it is what it is.” I’m sad and I’m scared of the unknown, and of everything changing. I’m afraid to admit that I miss the feeling of having someone in my life who will just hold me and let me cry it out, on those rare times when crying is the only way to cope.
But it’s true that it is what it is. I can’t change things, not with all of the water power in the world. Tears are ineffective.
In light of all of all of these changes, I have made the decision not to sign up for IronTeam this year. If all goes well, I’ll probably sign up for a few marathons and halves in the coming year. I’ll work on feeling strong and healthy, and on taking care of myself. I’ll keep everyone updated on how things go here.
Ever had a dream where you’re running away from something and your legs, arms and body just won’t move fast enough, as if some tremendous force were pushing you back? That’s how I feel most days when I go for a run. Typically, it doesn’t start out like that, but, after about 17-20 minutes, the heavy feeling starts to spread: to my eyelids, my shoulders, my arms, glutes, legs and feet. My heart, lungs and mind want to move faster, but my body is unwilling.
The doctor called this week, immediately following my ultrasound. She said that my bloodwork showed normal levels of thyroid hormone, but that my B12 levels were really low (hence the low energy). Then, she told me that my ultrasound revealed that my nodule was a complex one, meaning both solid and fluid-filled, and that I would need to schedule a biopsy.
It’s funny, through all of my time fundraising for cancer research, I never thought that I, myself, would come so close to “The Big C”. Reading through statistics, you’ll find that most thyroid nodules are benign, that, even if they do find malignancy, it’s very treatable in most cases. Only about 2% of cases get a bad prognosis, and that’s usually only if they’ve let it go for a while. Still, it does put things in perspective, when you suddenly realize that life isn’t this guaranteed forever thing. What are you running toward? What are you running from? Is it really necessary to run anywhere?
In running toward some things, I know I have sprinted painlessly away from others. I’ve spent so much of my life running away from things that scare me, or, worse, never trying because I was so afraid of the humiliation of failure. Mostly, I’ve run from myself, from the me I would be, if I’d never been afraid. I wonder how my life would have been different if I wasn’t afraid of showing the real me, instead of trying to remake myself all of the time into something better…
And now, because literal running has become so difficult, I have no choice but to find other ways to cope with life’s scary things. All of the alone time, in my own head, in my own world, just me and the pavement, safe, with my two feet drumming my independent rhythms against the road, all of that has been voided of freedom and joy. I now run just so I don’t lose all mojo completely, but it provides little satisfaction at this point, as I often find it difficult to run more than 40 minutes.
I may not believe that things happen for a reason, but I do believe that things can happen that give you reasons to learn, to reflect, and to grow. Maybe, while I’m still finding out what this health stuff means for my body, it’s time to slow down, stop running, and maybe consider taking in the landscape. Maybe we all need that, a pause, to figure out where we are going, and the roads we’ve hoofed to get us here.
One of the most common ailments of Ironmen and women is “The Post-Ironman Blues”, usually a combo of melancholy, restlessness, and mental strife that comes after devoting your mind, body and spirit to something for nine or more months, only to have it all end abruptly after one colossal tidal wave of a day washes over your life and strips it bare again.
The hilarity I find in this is that we spend these nine months fantasizing about what our lives will be after it’s all over, and we have “all of the free time in the world to do whatever we want.” I dreamed of re-organizing my apartment, taking hikes with the dog, getting back into Pilates, painting, taking woodworking classes, music concerts, going to art shows, enjoying the beach, and so much more. One week post Ironman, I have made no moves to do any of these things. I still can’t get enough sleep. Furthermore, this void, this nothingness, feels unnatural. I thought that I could go back to being the me that I was before I started this. The truth is, I cannot go back. Something in me is forever changed. I don’t know what that means, and how I can fit into the “normal” world again, but I guess that it’s safe to say that I feel a little bit lost.
The only thing that I have planned is a marathon, because I know for certain that running is a part of me now, but what else? What next? Who am I? What do I want? These questions I never thought that I’d be asking myself at 33 years of age. I thought that I’d had these things figured out before now. Now, without that looming goal in front of me, and all of the little goals in-between, I’m having to re-define myself.
Of course, people keep asking whether I’ll want to “seek revenge” on the Vineman course next year. While there is a part of me who wants to know what it feels like to cross an Ironman finish line, I felt happy with everything that I accomplished. I have no regrets out there on the course. If I hadn’t finished the bike course, I would have been filled to the gills with regrets, but I accomplished what I set out to do. So, what next? Do I pick out another Ironman and set my sites on it, or do I find other goals and come back to it later?
It’s all a big question mark, but I do know that I’m no longer the same person I was when I started this journey. I am more patient with myself, more grateful, and tough as nails, to boot. I can do anything that I put my mind to. The world is my oyster and I have a feeling that there are still a lot more pearls to discover about myself.
Before I launch into my epic racing tale, I’d like to rewind for a moment. Up until January 2012 I held a deep, dark secret: I had never ridden a bicycle. I just never learned. When I asked my mom why they never bought me a bike or taught me to ride one, she just said, “Hmm…I don’t know. I guess that you never showed any interest.”
Obsessed with horses, I wanted a pony, not a bike, I’m sure, but still it’s not a legit reason not to learn. Still, I spent much of my life lying about my lack of bike riding skill, making excuses as to why I couldn’t go on rides.
“Oh, let’s walk instead. I just really like walking.”
“But, it’s eight miles away.”
“I REALLY like walking. I’ll be fine.”
Thin excuses, at best.
I had told myself that I’d learn by age 30, that I’d let my embarrassing childhood secret go on long enough. Then, life got in the way and I let another year and a half go by. And then I decided to take a class offered by REI, which began in a local marina parking lot.
After 31+ years of non-riding, I was up and pedaling within 30 minutes. All that ridiculousness for nothing!
I remember the first time I fell. I took a turn a little too sharply on my brand new hybrid bike, wobbled out of control, and went down.
…And then, the first time I tried a road bike, I ran into a sign and sprained my wrist. The following road bike attempt, I fell three times (once in front of an EMT vehicle).
In spite of all of the tumbles, I decided to take on an Ironman, where I would be spending most of the race on my bike. I joined Team in Training’s Greater L.A. Ironteam, where I knew that I would get the support that I needed to get me through the race. Still, there were many challenges along the way that I had not prepared for.
Every single morning before a bike practice found me fighting the urge to lose my breakfast, dreading the challenges of the ride ahead: the cars, the unknown routes, the real possibility of falling, the stress of climbing those hills. Still, somehow, I managed to force myself to drive to the practice location, hop on my bike, and join the team on their workout.
I remember that January morning, in Palos Verdes, where, after learning to clip into my pedals, I fell over twice within the first two miles of our 40-mile ride. As I sat there on the sidewalk, I thought, “This isn’t for me. I’m not an IronWoman. I can’t ride a bike. I can’t do this. I can’t even stay upright.”
But Coach Jason and Coach Riz didn’t let me quit. They stayed with me and helped me face my fears. Even after falling again and cutting my leg deeply on my chainring, I churned up those tough hills and gave everything in my heart out on that pavement. It was then that I realized that I had what it took to take this journey.
Remember this? (photo credit: Jason Schneider)
That stupid bike and I, we’ve had our moments. We’ve had mechanical issues, flats, body cramping, knee pain, saddle pain, and all sorts of interesting problems. In spite of these things, I kept on going. Then, just when I was getting comfortable, feeling like, YES, maybe I could do this Ironman thing, I took a hard tumble on the Pacific Coast Highway, three weeks before my race. Not only did it mess up both of my knees, but also my shoulder and neck, which suffered whiplash from hitting the ground at 16 mph.
What pain?
Fast forward to race day. I had spent 8 months being nervous about making the bike cut off, and, now, I was even more afraid that, with my shoulder injury, I wouldn’t make up enough time on the swim. As I suited up for the swim wave, tears began to form, and butterflies were doing the electric boogaloo in my stomach.
My teammate, Marianthe, and I took a couple of minutes to dip into the water to the right of the swim start, just to get ourselves acclimated and calm nerves. It helped a bit to be in the water. Either way, this race was happening, so I needed to accept my fate.
5 a.m. in transition with Coach Holly (pre-freak-out) (Photo by Christopher Trent)
Post-freak-out, pre-swim, with some of my TNT Viner ladies! (photo by Christopher Trent)
Everyone says that the Vineman swim is the best swim, ever: glorious trees, warm, clear-ish water, a great current on the return, and a narrow path to keep zig-zaggers like me from swimming way too far out. I still zigged and zagged a bit, but was luckily able to realize it before I swam onto shore like some kind of beached river whale. I took it easy, slow and steady for the first loop, minding my shoulder and dodging stupid people who were standing up and running in the shallow water around the turnaround buoy. Near the end of Loop One, some dude jammed his elbow into my pinkie and ring fingers, and, for a split moment, I thought they might be broken. Luckily, they weren’t, and I was able to shake it off and keep swimming after several dozen panicked and limp strokes.
Some of the men were fairly aggressive swimming at Vineman, but, they weren’t nearly as terrible as some of the people at Wildflower. I had my feet grabbed a few times, but managed to kick the grabby hands off and swim away before they could push me or dunk me to swim over me. On the home stretch, I pushed it a little harder, and began kicking my legs to get them ready for the bike.
Coach Holly and Jason cheered enthusiastically when I popped out of the water.
“Under an hour and a half!” Holly shouted. My actual time was 1:26:40, but I wouldn’t find that out until later. Phew! I had made up enough time to give myself a head start on the bike!
And, oh, looky! I got my pic in the paper!
Now for that stupid bike. I pushed it up the little hill out of transition, hopped on, and i was on my way. I decided to spin easy for the first hour as I wheeled along the route. However, I found that, even easy spinning felt a little tough. My bike squeaked oddly up the first several climbs, but it had been misty damp out, so I figured it was probably just the moisture getting into the works.
You’d almost imagine I liked that thing.
I trusted that I would get my cycling legs back, but things still felt quite tough. My hip and legs were feeling a little crampy, as they always did on the first 25 miles of a steadily climbing ride, but I told myself I was only going to stop once every 25 miles, and, then, only for about a minute. I stopped, stretched, regrouped, and kept on pedaling. From mile 25 to Geyserville, at about mile 35, I felt like I was crawling along at a snail’s pace. Barely topping 12 mph, 9 mph on hills, I felt nervous about my time and about what was actually going on with me, but tried to put on a brave face as I passed Coach Jason and Coach Dave near the aid station.
“Looking strong!” Dave called out.
I felt a bit stronger, holding a 15-16 mph pace until I hit the infamous Chalk Hill turn, where a series of rollers transformed into the ride’s only Category 5 climb. I saw coach Amy at the bottom, who leapt into the air when she saw me pass. As I climbed up the steep part of the hill, I saw all of our teammates names chalked on the road and heard cheers and cowbells around the bend that I knew were coming from our amazing supporters.
They cheered for me as I churned the rest of the way up that hill, my teammates Lisa, who was dressed as a unicorn, and Sheree, who was dressed as a Ninja Turtle, running up the slope with me as I reached the top. If you’ve never had people cheer for you while you’re doing something really tough, it helps, believe me. I pushed just a little bit harder as I reached the crest.
Up the first big climb with a Ninja Turtle and a Unicorn by my side! How many people can say that?!? (photo by Christopher Trent)
Before I knew it, I was midway through the bike. Coach Holly told me I had made it in over an hour before cut-off, meaning I had made the first bike loop in just over four hours. Things were looking good. In fact, they were looking great. Yayyy! Phew! Yayyy! The trees looked a little bit greener and more beautiful, the air felt cleaner, and the sun felt as if it was smiling on me as I coasted along the course.
Happy go lucky!
I was sailing along for a while, until I again reached the rollers, and the squeaking got a bit more squeaky as I worked the pedals up a moderate climb. Finally, I stopped the bike and took a look, just to see, if maybe something had been knocked out of alignment. Sure enough, upon closer inspection, I discovered that my front brake had been rubbing the while time! At this point, I’d gone 70 miles with a rubbing brake, which, without a doubt, slowed me down and caused unnecessary fatigue, not to mention angst.
Things started moving much more quickly after that, I was hitting 17-19 mph consistently, but everything began to fall apart soon after I hit the pre-Geyserville hills again. This time, my saddle was hurting, my foot began to burn, and my legs were feeling trashed. By the time I got to Coach Jason, I started losing my composure.
“Now is not the time to fall apart,” Coach Jason stopped me as my breath began to stutter, before I erupted into sobs. “You can fall apart at the finish line, but not now.”
I sucked it up, buttercup.
He informed me that Coach Dave was waiting with his bike at the bottom of Chalk Hill. By the time I got there, my legs felt dead. I didn’t know how or if I was going to be able to negotiate these climbs.
Coach Dave was waiting for me, as promised. As we began to ascend, my climbs on the rollers began to slow to nearly 5 mph.
“Dave, I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t know if I can climb Chalk Hill again.” I called to him.
“Yes, you can do this. I’ve seen you do much harder things than this!” Dave called back to me, his bicycle weaving slowly in front of me as he spoke. “Don’t let your mind win!”
I kept pedaling.
My right thigh seized midway through the climb and I had to stop just before the steep part. Dave encouraged me onward, and, somehow I made it up the hill, up to where my teammates were still cheering for me and running alongside me up the rest of the way. I’m SO incredibly grateful for those people.
It wasn’t pretty, but, luckily, I had minions and superheroes by my side! (photo by Paiwei Wei)
I’d like to say that the last 12 miles were cake, but I stopped a bunch more to relieve the pain in my foot and saddle area, even though I knew that I needed to buy as much time as I possibly could getting in.
Sometimes you have to push past the pain. (photo by Christopher Trent)
I’m happy to say that I did it, I made it! I got off that stupid bike and made it onto the run! Yes! Yes! Yes! Did I mention that I made it off of the bike? Yessss!
I returned about a half hour before the cut-off time, giving myself four hours to transition and run 17.5 miles before the 9 p.m. cut off preceding the last loop of the marathon.
Holly helped me run out of transition, at about a 10-min pace, but I quickly fell apart. My legs felt like jelly, my stomach was utter grossness. My body was exhausted. It was the worst feeling I’d ever experienced. I ran into the second restroom out of transition, which left me feeling a bit better for a while, but my body gave me no option but to walk, a lot–or, if I did run, I wasn’t going above an 11 min pace.
Not feeling so hot here. (photo by Paiwei Wei)
Luckily, my teammate, Bill, was out there on the run, helping me pick up the pace a bit and keeping me focused on running. We hit up to a 7-min pace on a downhill, but that quickly slowed to a 10-min pace once we hit the flat again, and then, eventually, back down to a power walk. My body felt like shutting down. I had never felt so awful in my life.
Putting on a brave face at the turnaround. (photo by Paiwei Wei)
By the time I neared the 13.1 mile turnaround, I realized that I had 45 minutes to make it back 4.5 miles to meet the 9 p.m. cut off for my last loop. There was no way I was going to be able to make a 10-min pace for 4.5 miles back at that point. Coach Adam, Coach Amy, and our fundraising captain, Megan, ran with me, piping out music through their phones, singing hilariously inappropriate IronTeam marching cadences (thanks, Amy), but I knew I was doomed. At the 17.5 mile turnaround, they took my chip, and, with that, my long day was over. No finish line glory for me.
I guess that I expected to be more upset about not getting to cross the finish line after nine months of training for that one moment. For some reason, I wasn’t. Sure, it was a little bit disappointing not to be able to call myself an “IronMan”, and, sure, it stung a little bit to see my teammates cross the line and have that colorful purple and green medal hung around their necks, but, those final moments, that last lap, didn’t add up to all of the accomplishments I’d achieved over the past year of my life.
A medal, the title of “Ironman”, the “M Dot” tattoo, all of those things were all more for other people than they were for me. Those things were just trinkets, physical objects to prove that I’d completed a feat that only .01% of the population has attempted. What really mattered, what really counted, was all of the personal victories leading up to that moment.
Some of my teammates cried for me at the finish line. I guess they thought I was losing out on something. Maybe, for a brief, fleeting moment, I felt like a failure. When I realized that I’d come so far, only to be unable to finish the full race, I felt my heart sink, but, then, remembering why I was here and everything I had been fighting for, my heart filled with pride.
No one can say that I’m not a fighter. I accomplished what I set out to accomplish: I made the bike cut-off. The one thing that I feared that I couldn’t do, I did. What am I going to do, cry because I didn’t finish an Ironman? A whopping 132 miles is nothing to sniff at. Plus, if we’re really haggling, if this would have been a 17-hour “M Dot” race, I would have finished, no question.
It sounds trite when people say that it’s not about the destination, that it’s about the journey, but, in this case, it’s about every fall, every cut and scrape and bruise, every cramp, every gut-wrenching sob, every second that I felt like I couldn’t pedal another stroke. It’s about the scary downhills, and every teammate and coach who encouraged me to keep facing those fears, and never, ever to give up. It’s about the biggest lesson I’ve learned: to be forgiving of myself.
Ironman isn’t about being the fastest or the best at anything. It takes 140.6 miles of traveling to learn patience, pacing and to focus on what’s really important. It is about the small, minute by minute victories, rather than the final fanfare and glory. In the end, how can I feel anything but accomplished and successful?
The gratitude I feel after having this experience is bigger than this whole universe. And I know that I couldn’t have done it without some of the most amazing teammates and coaches a girl could ask for.
It wasn’t quite the medal I was hoping for, but after 132 miles of a 140.6 mile race, I’ll take it.
I would like to thank:
Coach Jason: For believing in me, and for scraping my carcass off of the pavement more times than I can count, for keeping me from having epic meltdowns on the bike, for being the voice of reason, always, and for genuinely caring about each and every one of us. You made me feel safe.
Coach Dave : For being the mushiest drill sergeant I know; able to fix anything, from broken bike parts to broken spirits. I don’t know what I would have done without seeing you on Chalk Hill at mile 100. I’m so grateful that you never let me give up.
Coach Amy: Because of you, I will never again curse hills without referring to a “big bag of d___ks!” Seriously, you embody perseverance, and the whole “suck it up, Buttercup!” mentality. I have seen you push to limits that would leave most 6’4″ male triathletes pale and crumpled on the side of the road. You have been an amazing inspiration and friend.
Coach Emily: We’ve come a long way since that creek ride in Culver City, where I did my best to keep my fear of careening off of the path into the ravine hidden as I struggled to keep up along the way. You’ve always been the one with the best quotes, and, most of all, you get me, in all of my abstract metaphorical dreamer logic. I always felt like, even my weirdest thoughts about this experience, you understood, and you always had great feedback. I’m so happy to have had you as a coach and to have witnessed your incredible victory at Vineman this year.
Coach Holly: Gah, ocean waves are coming! Where’s Holly? Oh, okay, she’s right there–Phew! You were an awesome guide through my first several ocean swims, where I wasn’t quite sure if I would make it out of the surf in one piece. Or on my runs, when I wasn’t sure if I could get my legs to move at my usual pace. Somehow, whenever we ran together, my legs responded and I started having fun on the run again. You helped take the “suck” out of most of my workouts.
Coach Adam: Philosophy, jokes, and an unforgettable speedo, Adam, you are the smiling face that always picked me up from dark places. We always shared our hatred of our bike nemeses, and our love of hitting the pavement on our own two legs. You kept things light with your incredible positivity and amazing spirit, and kept me going.
Coach Quinton: You helped drag my whining carcass across 80 miles of California coast. Always calm, patient, and collected, acting like hoards of traffic or monstrous ocean waves were no big deal, you always helped me keep my cool when things were a little chaotic (and, at least, when I wasn’t keeping cool and sobbing my guts out, you were just out of earshot).
Coach Pete: The guy who taught me to be proud of myself, to set my positive thought wheels in motion. While you weren’t my official coach this season, you were an amazing supporter and friend. Thanks for reminding me that triathlons can be fun.
Coach Rob: Yeah, you left us early on in the season to coach another team, but you were always around to support us during our races and on the pool deck every Tuesday. Your silliness and crazy, crazy athleticism are unforgettable. Because of you I MAY think about a 50-miler (not a 100-miler, because that’s only for complete loonies).
Coach Riz: While I was so, so sad that you weren’t going to be my coach anymore early in the season, I experienced my most life-changing moments with you, and I am SO grateful to have you as a supporter and friend, all the way to the end. You helped me to see the strength within myself. You are a natural coach, you are amazing, and I “heart” you so much!
Coach Brad: While you were never MY coach, you cheered me on, advised me and encouraged me through tough times, like Vineman training weekend, when my nutrition got the best of me. You helped to remind me to believe in myself. Even though I didn’t finish, I still believe in myself. I didn’t quit, and, going home, that feels like a win to me.
Coach Mikey: Remember when I could barely swim across the pool last year? Wow, we’ve come a long way! I never thought I would swim a 1hr26min Ironman, and that it would be EASY! I had you in my head the whole time. Every time I swim, I always think, “What would Mikey tell me to do?” We’ve looked for “sea ponies” in the ocean, and you helped me to learn to be patient with myself. You helped me to relax, have fun, and enjoy every workout. I can’t wait to get back into the pool with you guys! ❤
To my Vineman teammates (Marissa, Marianthe, Laura, Tiffany, Rona, Naomi, Beth, Amanda, Lisa, Elissa, Ben, Renee, Alex, plus Jane and Amy R-G): I thought I was going to be lonely, the only slowpoke cyclist remaining in our small team of fantastic athletes, but you all were so supportive and made me feel included, even when I wheeled in and you were all sitting around, having finished with your post-cycle run. I am so proud of all of you and am glad that I’ve made some incredible lifelong friends.
To my TNT teammates and Vineman cheer squad (Lisa, Sheree, Bill, Diallo, Mary, Trey, Tim, Raul, Pete, Lindsay, Clare, EWS, Jared, Chris & Lisa T., Matthew, Bobbi, and Megan): There is so, SO much love for the support I’ve received from all of you along the way. And for the cheerers, way to suck the “suck” right out of a Mile 100 hill, or an Ironman marathon! I’m so lucky to have you guys in my life.
To my supporters and all of you who have been following me along this journey: I couldn’t have done any of this without you. My heart is exploding with gratitude. Whether you’ve been reading my blog or requesting updates from me at work, your interest in my experience has meant an insurmountable lot to me. I value all of you and hope to have the chance to catch up and spend quality time with each and every one of you in the upcoming months.
So….what’s next? Am I going to try again? I think I’d like to. I’ve batted around the idea of doing IM Cozumel next year, which has a flat bike course and a lot of cool stuff to look at. Truthfully, though, I don’t know how I feel about doing it all over again, and without a team to support me. I don’t feel as though I need to prove anything, but it would be nice to just go on and finish what I started.
For now, I’m just going to enjoy a few weeks of recovery and then gear up for the Half Moon Bay Marathon, at the end of September. Plus, summer’s almost over and it’d be nice to maybe go and enjoy the beach for once too. 😉
Thanks again for supporting me. I will continue to write in this blog to keep people apprised of my journey as it continues on.
Less than a week to Vineman, and it’s really here, it’s really happening. Nine months of slaying fear dragons and getting knocked about, and here we are. It’s strange when you’re training for something for that long. It feels like you’re just going to be in “training mode” forever and that, somehow, the actual day of reckoning will never arrive, but will simply loom, mirage-like, on the horizon. Now the illusion is materializing, and, with it, of course, comes a windfall of hard realities.
My anxieties over my bike time have always hovered in the background, as I have watched my teammates become amazing athletes and cyclists, and I’ve stayed lagging behind, repeating Teddy Roosevelt’s words, “Comparison is the thief of joy” in my head as my mantra. Now I have to face the hard edge of truth, that, I’ll have little margin for error on that bike. Come hell or high water, I have to push, push, push, through pain, through tears, through any random curveball that comes my way.
Last weekend, Coach Jason told me to “keep moving forward”, no matter what. Even if I do face dire challenges that put me in the position of not being able to make that bike cutoff. “Don’t stop until they come sweep you off the course,” Jason advised.
So many of my coaches and friends have told me that they key to accomplishing what I want to accomplish on that bike course lies in my own tangled brain. I should believe, with my whole heart, that I can finish this bike leg, that I can make the cut off. So, when all else fails, I must arm myself with facts:
1) I have been training all season long for this race. I have the strength and endurance within me.
2) I know that I can finish 100 miles in 7.5 hours WITH lots of long stops, so there is no reason to believe that I cannot finish 112 miles in 8.5-9 hours.
3) Race day will provide lots of motivation and adrenaline, and Vineman is a beautiful bike route to provide distractions.
4) I cannot gauge my performance based on what happened at Vineman Training Weekend. Besides the temp climbing to 104 degrees F, my Accelerade did not absorb, causing me to bonk early on. Note: Prior to bonking, I was making good time out on the course.
5) I cannot compare myself to others. As long as I remain within my own pace requirements, I can focus on enjoying the day and appreciating everything that I’ve done to get here.
I will try to keep this logic in my back pocket. I think I will write “Believe” on my arms to keep me in a positive head space during the ride. Once the ride is over, I get to jam on the run (and by “jam” I mean keep a steady 10:30 pace throughout, if possible–Vineman’s run is a little bit tough).
I suppose that, even typing through these thoughts, I feel a bit better. Rather than letting my emotions gulp me down into a neverending rabbit hole of strained nerves and sick stomachs, I’ll try to remind myself to get back to the real world and look at the evidence of my own success.
And, again, so what if I don’t finish? Anything can happen on race day. It’s a long a$$ day. What happens? Well, yes, it’s disappointing to have to come home with a medal-free neck, like I did at Wildflower, but, really, was the medal the point of all of this? You don’t get to wear all of the things that you have accomplished on the outside, but they still show. I walk a little taller now, fear challenges a little bit less, I live with the knowledge that, if you really want something, you can go for it with your whole heart, and you can achieve things you never imagined you could do. I live with the knowledge that I’m tougher than I look, and that I have the strength to weather any of life’s natural disasters.
Of all of the strengths I’ve gained during these last nine months, the most powerful is the strength to believe in myself. With that strength, I’ll keep the forward momentum.
I have another great story for you coming soon after an epic-ly tough weekend (including the infamous 5/3 brick)!
Just a reminder that I’m going to be swimming, biking and running in my first Ironman in TWO WEEKS in order to raise money to fight cancer!
I’m still miles away from my fundraising goals and I could really use your help. Please become MY superhero and donate what you can to the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society here:
Milestones. Sometimes they’re physical and tangible, like crossing a state line to a place you’ve never been, and sometimes they exist in hidden spaces inside the self. Either way, they are a gateway to a new layer of self, a new dimension of seeing the world, whether their impact is large or small.
This week was our scheduled 100-mile ride, or a “Century”, as spandex-clad Tour de France fanboys tend to call it (and as it’s known in the world of cycling). Century sounds a bit epic and intimidating, like standing at the edge of a cliff and looking way, way down at the infinite landscape stretching on and on for 100 whole miles. 100-miler sounds more like taking one mile at a time, in small bites, til you get there.
No matter what you call it, I was doing it. The team met in a new spot along the Pacific Coast Highway, and I managed to somehow let my GPS lead me astray in getting there. As if 100-miles were not intimidating enough, I ended up arriving just in time to throw on my helmet and scramble onto my bike to catch up with my already-wheeling away teammates.
My goal this week was to relax, to let myself have fun this day, and not worry too much about my time, or about being separated from the pack. Typically anyway, everyone sort of spreads out during the long rides. I was going to keep it steady, focus on keeping my breathing even, and avoid panicking about anything for every mile until the end.
It was going okay, but then it wasn’t so okay Within the first 20 miles out into Ventura County, I began to get a familiar cramping in my thighs and hip. For some reason, my body really does not like that stretch of the PCH. Luckily, I managed to get to the mile 25 SAG station and hop off to get in a long, long stretch session, which enormously helped things.
There are always spots on the PCH that are no fun, like long climbs along lots of beach-going parked cars, and stretches where you can’t really see much of anything cool, and you just have to keep on truckin’ til you do get to something cool. I can definitely think of worse places to bike, scenery-wise, but sometimes the cars and trucks zooming past you while you hug a small sliver of shoulder can be intimidating.
Overall, I was handling my ride pretty well, all things considered, and I was keeping up a nice little merry clip– not all-out, but a good, happy-legged pace. Best of all, even when I had to dig deep, my mind hovered just above that really nasty ditch-place, the one that’s really hard to get out of, once you’re in there, and it’s a really dark, desperately tragic, alone spot to be in.
At the second SAG spot, at the turnaround to head back out to Los Posas in Ventura County, I met up with one of my teammates, Lisa, who’d already “been there, done that” at Ironman Coeur D’Alene the previous month, but who had come out (along with many other already Ironman teammates) to ride support with us along the way. Lisa and I chatted easily along the road, maintaining a 15-17 mph pace along most of the flats and moderate inclines. She told me about how she maintained an easy-going pace, and still had plenty of time to finish her race. Of course, I thought, she had 17 hours to finish hers, whereas Vineman racers only have 16 hours. Yipe and yipe.
Before I realized it, I’d cycled out to Ventura and back to the first SAG station. Over 60 miles killed, and only 40 to go. And I still hadn’t gone to a really dark place. Things were not sucking. I was actually enjoying myself. And keeping a decent pace (for me) just over four hours in.
Back again to the turnaround I went. Lisa had left me to myself at SAG, but the fun I’d had riding along with her on that second loop remained. Though, admittedly, the cycling was getting a little bit harder as my legs and body fatigued, my attitude and outlook were still, as compared to my other monstrous cryfests, really awesome.
I saw my speedier teammates heading back toward the start line, figuring they were probably about an hour ahead of me, overall. Teddy Roosevelt once said, “Comparison is the thief of joy.” Conversely, if you’re feeling happy, then you don’t feel much like comparing yourself to others. Seeing them speed by, the only thing I could think was, Wow, they must be really happy to be that much closer to being over this ride.
I knew it would be my turn to be “over” the ride soon enough. Heading back toward the start, there was a ton of traffic, plus lots of long, not too steep climbs that really required some deeper digging, just to get past them.
Finally, I could see it, the FINISH. Seven hours and twenty minutes in, I was almost there. It was happening. I could almost taste it. Then, SPLAT!
It wasn’t so much a “splat” really, but it happened as fast as a splat would. Something caused my handlebars to jerk crazily to the side, and, before I knew it, I was flying head-first toward the ground at 16 mph. Luckily, my years of horseback riding training had subconsciously prepared me for any fall, as if my brain knows, “Ground contact is immanent. Prepare to go limp in 5, 4, 3…”
My shoulder took the brunt of the impact, although I quickly became aware of my face sliding across the pavement as well. Just to show where my priorities were at that moment, I remember thinking: No! Not my face! I have meetings at company headquarters tomorrow! I tried to pick my head up as much as I could, even though sheer inertia (and my bike) had me somewhat pinned to the concrete.
I landed with my bike on top of me, and I was in pain. Luckily, it was a holiday weekend, so there were lots of people around to witness my spill. Some woman in a long, jersey dress had stopped along with a couple of men and another, older woman. The jersey dress lady pulled my bike off of me and asked if I was okay. My knee, shoulder and face were bleeding. She was convinced I had hit my head (I had not), and called the paramedics. Meanwhile, a nice man helped to pick me up off of the ground, once I determined that nothing was broken.
I called Jason, who showed up almost immediately (I was only a half mile from the finish), and waited with me until the paramedics appeared, which was also almost instantaneous. They slapped on a crude gauze bandage and put me through some standard brain damage tests. Then, we loaded my bike into the car and headed back to where I started.
Tears flowed freely, maybe a bit because I was in shock, but mostly because I had experienced the greatest ride of my life, and had it end SO suckily that it trumped all of my other spills and mishaps. My insides were stuck on some kind of looping coaster of emotion and couldn’t make sense of any of it.
The next day, we were scheduled to swim two miles and run 20. For obvious reasons, swimming in salt water was out, but I was determined, soreness and all, that I was going to attempt the run.
I started out a little faster than I should have, given that both of my knees and body were pretty banged up. By mile 11, my shoulder and back were beginning to cramp up . I wasn’t sure if I was going to be able to continue.
“I’m just not sure about this…” I began to tell Jason.
“Listen, I know you can run a marathon, but, mentally, I need you to finish what everyone else is doing. If it gets too painful, just walk it out, but you need to finish the mileage,” Jason calmly, but firmly laid down the law.
Booh. This was not going to be easy. Everything hurt. It was hot. I hated the whole world. But eff if I was going to “walk out” the next nine miles. I just kept on going.
While, yes, the mileage was much slower, and much, much more painful than it would have been had I not been body slammed into the concrete the day before, I finished what I started in just over four hours.
“So, theoretically, I could do a sub-five hour marathon on race day,” I mused to Coach Emily while stretching out my ridiculously sore body.
“Yes, you could,” Emily replied. “But don’t hold yourself to that.”
Sure, anything can happen on race day, but I’ve already experienced my fair share of banana peels, monkey wretches, and other such plan-spoiling devices. And, more importantly: I know that I am prepared for anything, that, mentally, I can take the hard knocks.
Vineman, I’m coming for you. And I’m more than ready.
This whole book of lessons continually reveals new chapters,even after I think the end is sure to be on the next page. I keep studying, even though I really am not certain whether these lessons will amount to success in the end, or end with crushing disappointment. I keep following because there is still hope in me that, miraculously, I will finish this thing.
Let’s rewind a bit. The past several weeks have seen me struggle with mental and physical anguish on my bike, sometimes plowing through, and sometimes throwing in the towel, feeling defeated and completely crushed. I’m still trying to get a handle on why I am unable to handle the pains associated with cycling, and why I keep quitting. Quitting is a habit, just like any other. If you set your mind to, “If I feel bad, I can just bail out,” then, whenever you are feeling any kind of pain, the mind has a way of worming out of situations that get mentally and emotionally challenging.
I quit again last weekend, at Mile 70 of our 80-Mile Vineman training weekend in Sonoma. It was 102 degrees of dry, dry heat. We had splashed through our 2+ mile practice swim in the lake, and proceeded to spin along the race course route. The race course was spectacular. Initially, I tried to focus on keeping my pace up, staying with the others for a little while, until, as always happens, they disappeared from view, and I was out on the course alone with my thoughts.
For a good while, things were going okay. I had a shifting epiphany when Coach Riz told me to “click up one gear, get to the speed you want, and then click back down and keep a high cadence to maintain it.” Oh Em Gee. All of this time I had been shifting up and up and up to get a faster pace, but then burning my legs out in the high gears trying to maintain the cadence. I began flying along the road at paces I had never before been able to maintain for sustained periods. I began to think, “Wow! I could actually finish this race!”
Around Mile 40 I started feeling bloated, so much so that the front of my stomach started to hurt as the waist of my otherwise stretchy and loose Tri shorts started to dig in. I struggled fiercely climbing Chalk Hill, the one Cat 5 climb of the whole race, and not something that I hadn’t ever done before. By the time I got to a stop sign after Chalk, I started feeling light-headed and dizzy. The sun toasted overhead. Coach Amy rode up and advised me to stand in the shade awhile to regain my composure and cool off.
When I finally got going again, I began to think about how long this was taking me, and how every time I stopped, I added more time to my overall ride. I thought about how everyone would have to wait for me to finish, and how I would feel like a loser, again. My legs were getting weaker and weaker, even though I was taking in calories and electrolytes. My stomach was feeling pretty gross. My feet both experienced “hot foot” from swelling in my shoes, which was incredibly painful.
I pushed on, feebly struggling to maintain a pace of 10-13 mph. I started to panic, get upset. I asked out loud, over and over, “Why can’t I move?!?” I begin to grunt and cry and throw a tantrum at my feeble legs, whose hamstrings screamed for mercy. Then, the headwinds hit. I told myself, “You are not quitting!” It took everything I had to press on with my weak, weak failing legs.
Finally, at Mile 70, after hyperventilating and sobbing some more, I stopped at a stop sign. The light-headed ness has returned. I thought, “There is no way I can climb up Chalk Hill again.” I could barely cycle on the flat, how was I going to get up Chalk Hill?
Our roving SAG person caught up with me and asked if I needed help. She told me that she could pick me up and I conceded. I gave up. Not finishing again made me feel like more of a loser than if I’d been the last finisher.
According to Coach Jason, my nutrition had stopped absorbing (hence the bloat), despite my efforts to fuel it. That would make sense as to why my legs quit on me. Still, I felt like a wussy, a worthless DNFer who just wasn’t as good as everyone else.
I redeemed myself a little on the next day’s 18-mile run, finishing before a good number of my teammates, even though I still wasn’t feeling very strong. Still, the weekend left me a bit unsettled.
Coach Amy called me midweek to chat about my struggles. We talked about pain and nutrition and getting through the “dark” places during the ride. We talked about my specific struggles and my self doubt. In the end, we came up with a new nutrition plan and an assignment for next week’s ride:
“It s a shorter ride this week, I want you to just have fun on the bike. Don’t worry about your time or what anyone else is doing, just go out there and look at the scenery and enjoy your ride.”
It sounded simple enough, but I knew that it came with its own challenges for me. Those crushing moments when the pack pulls away from me, those times when I’m struggling up a hill or feeling pain in my feet, all were obstacles I saw that could thwart me from my purpose. Still, challenge accepted.
Our Vineman training group, whittled down to just 12 members, started off in a small pack. Per usual, the pack kept a starting pace of over 20 mph. I know this because I was going 18-19 mph and they pulled away from me and disappeared quickly. Instead of letting it become a source of anxiety, I focused on my own pacing and cadence, however slow, because, as Coach Quinton said once, “There is nobody (besides the elites) who finishes an Ironman bike fast.”
One of my assets as a runner is that, even though I’m not super fast, I am solid, and fairly good at pacing myself. I decided that I was going to attempt to translate those skills over to the bike, assuming that a solid overall pace would be about 15mph, including all climbs and descents. Things were looking pretty good. I was cruising along at about 16-18mph on the flats, using Riz’s click up method. Then, I heard a bizarre clicking.
I stopped my bike and checked my cadence sensor. Things appeared normal there. Then, I noticed the problem: a flat tire. Not only did I have a flat, but a piece of metal was jammed into my tire, piercing the tube. Really?!? Someone out there was really trying to make it so that my ride was the least amount of fun imaginable. After struggling for several minutes to pull the metal out, I finally dislodged it, grabbed my one tube and removed my new Gatorskin from the wheel.
What seemed like lots of struggling and many minutes later, I finally got back on the road, determined to enjoy the ride. Coach Emily was waiting for me at Mulholland Canyon. I told her what happened, and we proceeded to climb up. Suddenly my ride got very bouncy. We pulled over to the side of the road and, sure enough, I was going flat again, Huzzah.
Emily helped me to pump up my bike and we got back on the road, only to be stopped again shortly thereafter because, you guessed it, the tire had gone flat again. With no spare tube, my only option was to call SAG. Emily waited with me for over 20 minutes, when SAG pulled up with a replacement wheel, and I was good to go.
Was I nervous about being so far behind my group? Sure I was, but at this point it didn’t really matter, so I tried to just enjoy the ride. Having Coach Emily to talk to generally helped things, on top of the expansive views during the very long, sustained climb up Mulholland.
As we descended down a very technical hill, I realized how far I’d come, how much more in control of my bike that I felt, in spite of being a newb. Near the bottom of the descent, we encountered a hidden horsey wonderland, with Shetland ponies and well-groomed horses in pastures, in some of the Valley’s rare shady spots. I felt calm, relaxed, joyful here, something that rarely came over me on the bike.
I was in such a state of zen, I didn’t even freak out when I saw a live baby rattler on the road while we were encountering some rolling canyon hills. When Coach Emily left me on my own at mile 27 or so to finish the ride, I was still enjoying myself, playing with various gears and speeds on the bike.
The loop was 31 miles,ending at the start, but we were required to do a total of 40, which meant an additional out and back. I could have cheated, said, “Eh, 31 miles is good enough after all I dealt with today,” but I was determined to finish what I set out to do.
The out and back was relatively flat, so I played with my gears and effort level, enjoying the various challenges, and the fact that I felt relatively fresh after a 40-miler. When I finished, I rolled in feeling like I had accomplished some sort of personal victory. I did what I set out to do, in spite of the challenges.
These days, I’ll take my wins however they come.
Go Team! Post-run, in Sonoma. Photo credit: Laura Crow.
I’m writing this post from atop a block of ice, my lower extremities slathered in arnica gel and Biofreeze. Needless to say, I did not finish today’s 80-miler. Not even close. Even with the best of intentions, I faced yet another stupid monster. And it got me.
I had high hopes for today’s ride. I had a great trainer ride mid-week, and I finally felt like some power was coming back into my legs. My bike, Shadow Comet, on the other hand, had grown tired of all of the switching back and forth of the front derailleur, and obstinately, as it has been prone to do in the past, refused to switch out of the big chainring toward the end of the ride. Fine, be that way. I’m taking you to the shop again. I told it, yanking it off of the trainer and leaning it against the wall.
I had to hit up the bike shop anyway, as I was finally getting on board with obtaining a cadence sensor, which Coach Holly said would help a whole heck of a lot with my overall pace. I was willing to try anything, so the cadence sensor seemed like a good place to start.
Unfortunately, two of my usual shops didn’t have the sensor in stock. I was going to have to shop around(which OF COURSE I have loads of time for). Meanwhile, my bike mechanic, Jorge, had other disappointing recommendations about the status of my bike and its shifters. He said that the shifters would keep getting stuck, so if I wanted to stop the sticking, I would need to get new shifters, rear cassette, chain and front derailleur.Oh. Dear.
Mind you folks, I purchased this bike for a mere $600 off of Craigslist. I was unemployed, so my options we limited at the time. Let’s just assess what I’ve spent on it so far, shall we?
Bike fitting: $200
Tune-up: $100
Second bottle holder: $10
Service fees for brakes, shifters, etc.: $180
New pedals: $60
New bar tape: $40
New tire: $50
New saddle that felt like a wild animal was biting my crotch: $100
New saddle that was less painful than the others: $200
Saddle cover to deaden the saddle pain slightly: $20
Third and Fourth bottle holders: $40
My bike total: $1600
Basically, if I purchased all of this machinery, I would have been able to buy a much better bike, brand new, for the ridiculous lot of cheddar that I would be dumping on this thing. Of course, all of that money had been spent and was now a whole lot of Velveeta under the bridge anyway (hey, I follow through with my cheesy jokes). Plus, what if it happened again during Vineman? It would be devastating to not finish on a mechanical failure, a race I worked SO hard to finish!
Needless to say, I left my bike (and my grocery money for the next month) at the bike shop, and hunted down a new cadence sensor. When I entered the third shop, and asked the sales guy about whether they carried the sensor, he seemed to know right away where to find one, except there were none where he thought they were. After some hunting, he found one, but he told me that it was on hold for another customer. You have got to be kidding me, I thought. Was there some run on Garmin cadence sensors among the cyclists of Los Angeles that I was unaware of?
The sales clerk disappeared into the mysterious back room for a while, I’m assuming to consult The Great And Powerful Wizard Of Cog, and emerged with good news. I was granted permission to purchase the sensor. To heck with that stupid holding cyclist. You snooze, you lose, Bucko!
I even succeeded in mounting the thing on my bike myself, without much help (thank you, YouTube). Armed with all of the tools for success, my lovely Frankenbike and I were ready to rock the weekend’s 80-mile ride.
Initially, I was a little surprised at how low my comfortable cadence had been. Starting out, my legs really liked 75 rpms. But that was my problem. Previously, I would begin a ride at a high gear, with low rpms, and my legs would tire, mid-ride. Furthermore, once my legs fatigued, they were used to slugging along at low rpms so my pace would fall and I would be unable to pick back up.
Today I was training for high rpms. Instead of mashing a higher gear up the hills, Coach Quinton stayed back with me. I worked on spinning up them, working the whole leg and whole pedal stroke to get up the slopes. It felt weird and cardiovascularly annoying, as I felt like I was running on my bike.
Quinton helped guide me as I acclimated to this new riding style. My legs felt as though they were flailing wildly, with nothing to push solidly against, but without lower gearing and higher cadence, a triathlete can melt down on the run. I had to learn this. It was for my own good,
Spin easily uphill and work the downhills and flats I thought to myself. With no bigger gear momentum to get me up hills, I felt slower and more winded climbing at first. I spun fiercely against those grades, maybe too fiercely.
Around Mile 20, I felt that familiar tight ache in the back of my leg, the kind where a muscle fiber feels as though it has been stretched beyond its limits. Crap. I think I pulled a muscle. I started to worry. Am I going to be able to finish 80 miles on a pulled muscle?
I tried to push the pain out of my mind, but it kept getting worse, stronger and sharper as I climbed up hills. On the last couple of climbs before we hit the SAG stop, I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to be able to continue. The crazy part was, I felt like I was just getting warmed up and probably could have gotten into an okay cycling “zone” at that point, if it wasn’t for the pain. I wanted to keep going, to keep practicing my cadence, but, at that point, I knew that it would be stupid to continue, and risk the season. I SAG’d myself out, yet again.
The funny thing is, I didn’t even cry this time. I felt disappointed, but I accepted it. I didn’t flog my own sorry hide about being a slowpoke or for being a baby and not pushing through an injury. I didn’t boohoo over the fact that I’d just spent all of this money and still had a stupid ride. I didn’t lament the fact that I have never had a good bike ride, ever.
Sure I’m nervous about my race, but I think the bigger lesson here is that I
have to be kinder to myself. I still have time to get used to having a higher cadence and to become a stronger cyclist. I want to do it, and I will. Next week we will probably ride most of the Vineman course. The only real monster I have to face is myself.
As many of my readers already know, I’m not just swimming, biking and running 140.6 miles straight for my own amusement (what a hoot it has been–ha!), I am doing so to help raise money to fight cancer and support those who are going through very difficult treatment right now.
Here’s the deal: I have a goal to raise almost $6K by July. I’m only 32% of the way there, and it’s already May. I really could use your support.
What’s in it for you if you donate from now until July 1:
If I reach:
34%– one randomly selected donor wins a $50 Visa gift card
43% — One randomly selected donor wins a $100 gift card to his or her airline of choice
60% — Two randomly selected donors will win $200 for their airline of choice
90%+ — One randomly selected donor will win a grand prize package!
$10 donation= one entry. Drawing held July 2, 2013
Instead of ordering pizza tonight, consider putting that money toward making a difference in the lives of many.
Spread the word, inspire others to do something awesome today!
THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU! ❤ ❤ ❤
I’m kicking cancer’s a$$!
——-
Leukemia And Lymphoma Society “Fast Facts”
WHO: The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society (LLS) is the world’s largest voluntary health organization dedicated to funding blood cancer research and providing education and patient services. Founded in 1949, we are relentless in pursuit of our mission: Cure leukemia, lymphoma, Hodgkin’s disease and myeloma, and improve the quality of life of patients and their families.
WHAT: Investing in blood cancer research: LLS has invested more than $750 million in research, approximately $72 million in fiscal year 2010 alone. Programs like the Specialized Center of Research (SCOR), which brings together teams of scientists from different disciplines and our Translational Research Program, which funds research with a high probability of producing innovative patient treatments in an accelerated time frame, have directly contributed to many breakthrough cancer treatments.
Research funded by LLS has led or contributed to advances such as chemotherapy, bone marrow and stem cell transplantation and new, targeted oral therapies such as Gleevec®, Rituxan®, Velcade®, Thalidomid®, Revlimid®, Dacogen® and Vidaza®.
Providing critical information and support for patients and their families:
We made 4.7 million contacts with patients, caregivers and healthcare professionals in fiscal year 2010, through our Information Resource Center (IRC), our award winning Web site and community-based patient service programs. We put people together with experts through Web-casts and teleconferences, and provided professional education through seminars, to extend the latest findings to a broader professional audience.
Advocating for issues impacting blood cancer patients: With more than 50,000 advocacy volunteers throughout the country, our voice is being heard by those responsible for legislation to fund blood cancer research and educational programs.
WHY: The need is critical: An estimated 957,902 people in the United States are living with, or are in remission from, leukemia, Hodgkin lymphoma, non-Hodgkin lymphoma or myeloma. Every four minutes, someone new is diagnosed with blood cancer. Every 10 minutes, someone dies.
Leukemia causes more deaths than any other cancer among children under the age of 20. Lymphomas are the most common blood cancers and incidence increases with age. The survival rate for myeloma is only 38.5 percent. Incidence is nearly twice as high among African Americans as for all other races.
HOW: As a nonprofit, we rely on the generosity of individuals, corporations and foundations. Seventy-five percent of our total expenses support cancer research, education, advocacy and patient services. Major, annual fundraising campaigns include Team In Training®, Light The Night® Walk, School & Youth ProgramsSM, Man & Woman of the Year and The Leukemia Cup Regatta.
WHERE: In addition to our national headquarters in White Plains, NY, we have a network of 59 local chapters across the United States and Canada. Information on blood cancers and support is available through our IRC and at http://www.LLS.org.
FOR ADDITIONAL INFORMATION:
Information Resource Center: (800) 955-4572
Media: Andrea Greif, director of public relations (914) 821-8958
Research grant information: Rick Winneker, SVP Research (914) 821-8310
Ironwoman Dreams 