Triathlon: Where I Started

By kate on June 28th, 1999

I never thought of myself as a triathlete, so I was surprised when a co-worker asked if I was interested in doing the Danskin Women’s Triathlon. I almost wrote it off, but since the woman who invited me didn’t seem like a triathlete type either, I checked out the web site.

The triathlon (on August 15, 1999) consisted of a .75K swim, a 20K bike, and a 5K run; one after the other, in that order. That is a .47-mile swim, a 12.5-mile bike, and a 3.1-mile run. I signed up, and began training. Along the way, I changed triathlons to Escape from the Rock on September 12, 1999 (more explanation later).

If you read my posts tagged ‘triathlon’, you will be able to follow my progress as I changed from a normal girl into a triathlete. Here’s where I started…

As far as my level of fitness, I consider myself average. I play soccer once a week, and ride my bike to work. I enjoy rock climbing, paddling, racquetball, and snow skiing when I get the opportunity. I end up working out 2-3 times a week or so. I’m not out of shape. But I’m not a marathon-girl, either: I never go for 50-mile bike rides. My interest in working out is mostly to keep my body fit, and not for the enjoyment of the exercise.

Doing this triathlon is definitely out of my usual scope. I decided to give it a try because I think it is an attainable, though challenging, goal. It will be an interesting project to devote six weeks to my body and see what the results will be, what I’ll look like, how I’ll feel, and if my attitude toward exercise has changed.

Another consideration is my asthma. It is, fortunately, mild; but, unfortunately, exercise-induced. Before working out, I take 2-3 puffs on my inhaler. Then, I often need more after getting warmed up. It’s manageable, though; just something else to be aware of.

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My Second Hike

By kate on May 27th, 1999

I didn’t intend it this way, but the next hike opportunity I got after my first hike was to hike on Mt. Rainier, from Paradise to Camp Muir. This is a four-and-a-half-mile hike that begins at a 5000-foot altitude and ends at 10,000 feet.

Before the hike, I was really nervous. Would I be able to make the grueling 8-hour (round-trip) hike? More importantly, would I be able to make it while keeping my composure, not complaining, not holding up the group? I told myself it was simply a matter of will. That my body is up to it. I do have asthma, but it’s mild, and since I’ve had my inhaler, I’ve never had a problem. I didn’t really think it would be the asthma that would stop me, just sheer exhaustion. Which is where the willpower comes in. If I’m just tired, I told myself, I can overcome that. I can.

I was very prepared. I packed my bag with the “ten essentials” and many non-essentials. Extra gloves and headwear and jacket. Lots of food and water. A journal and a book. The book shows the seriousness of my doubts; because it was to occupy my time in case I had to wait for the others to come back down (assuming I had to turn back early). All in all, though, my equipment left me with the feeling of excitement that comes from having a whole collection of new toys. Even the backpack was brand-new. I couldn’t wait to use everything; and when I focused on that, I could almost overlook my anxiety.

My most vivid memory from the hike is of footprints, indentations of boots in the snow. I spent almost all of the hike up focusing intently on finding the next bootprint and stepping into it so I wouldn’t slip. At first, the hills were covered with an array of tread marks, and following a single person’s trail was tricky. But closer to the top, all the footprints converged into a single path: left, right, left, right. Like steps, they provided traction and balance to the single-file line of hikers winding up the slope. Left, right, left, right. Once I got into the rhythm of it, I was able to plant my hiking poles with my opposite hands without thinking. I could also, once I got going (left), forget my altitude-induced heavy breathing (right), forget my companions (left), forget the beautiful view behind me (right) and the mountaintop ahead (left); and focus carefully on flexing the muscles (right) and contracting the tendons (left) that pulled the next foot up (right) and placed it in the next bootprint (left). As I hiked Mount Rainier I measured my progress not by miles (four and a half), not by altitude gain (five thousand feet), but in each short stride, each successful step that placed me that much higher up instead of slipping or sinking into the snow.

I’m glad I did this hike. It was a victory of will and adhered to my personal policy of not giving into unreasonable fear. That said, I didn’t enjoy a lot of it. It was as hard as I expected it would be, and I really did have to exercise my willpower to persevere. I never stopped breathing hard – the altitude (not my asthma) made getting enough oxygen a laborious task. The breaks we took were great: my breathing slowed, I had water and snacks, and enjoyed the view.

But starting up again after a break was the hardest part. I always got tired right away and didn’t get my rhythm going for several minutes. I wasn’t sure I’d make it all the way until Camp Muir was close. I doubted myself and my reasons for the hike. I suffered the heat of exerting in the sun and the sudden chill when the wind whipped around the mountain. But I couldn’t dwell on any of that. It was all there in my subconscious, yet my conscious mind was entirely focused on the left-right-left of getting to the top. I didn’t have the luxury of dwelling on physical worries (shortness of breath, exhaustion), let alone emotional issues.

When we finally reached our goal, I was surprised by my complete lack of elation in the accomplishment. Instead, the moment I sat down, I was flooded with all the emotions I had suppressed in my single-minded struggle up the mountain. I sat hugging my knees and felt the physical and emotional exhaustion wash over me. (I’m not sure if the ten-thousand-foot altitude contributed to this; I’ve heard that altitude can cause mental confusion.) It took a good fifteen minutes to rise to the surface again and cheer up. Only then did I really take in the stunning view and enjoy the peace of such a high vantage point.

I also chatted and ate lunch with my friends. Despite the fact that I came with a group of seven, hiked with two others, and the mountain was crowded with hikers, the hike up was very solitary. We talked a bit, but air was a commodity so we tended to save it for breathing. I was so wrapped up in making it up the mountain that I stared almost exclusively at the ground in front of me. At Camp Muir, it was an explosion of human interaction which continued all the way back down the mountain.

We started down joyously, in big leaping strides that spanned three or four uphill steps. The simple act of walking, so difficult before, was suddenly many times easier. Now, slipping and falling in the snow was no longer a setback, but fun. We spent much of the first hour down experimenting with the best way to slide down the hill on our backsides, enjoying the surprised and envious looks from those still trudging uphill.

Because we were sliding so much, we wore our waterproof coats and pants. This protected us from melting snow, but also prevented air from passing through. After more than an hour, our enjoyment of going downhill went downhill as the sunburns we had been cultivating all day began to glow with heat. Because sliding downhill was the easiest way, we kept wearing our waterproof outfits despite the humidity. The loss of altitude brought a warmer air temperature too, accompanied by softer, meltier snow. Eventually, sliding opportunities became rarer, and we went back to walking. Plodding through knee-deep slush, we realized we had underestimated how far it was back to Paradise. Walking so laboriously in the fierce sunlight made us sweat under our outerwear and rediscover exhaustion, despite the downward slope. By the time we reached the parking lot, the excitement of bounding downhill and the onerous fatigue of slogging ahead had been replaced by a calm sense of relief and accomplishment. A burden was lifted: I had done all I came to do. I stepped onto solid ground for the first time in eight hours, and was finally free to relax.

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Learning Languages

By kate on May 26th, 1999

I’m learning Spanish! The reason is because I am going to Mexico for 10 days in mid-June and I was a little leery of going to a foreign country where I barely knew how to say “please”. I took French in high school, you see…

(Imagine Wayne and Garth waving their fingers and saying, “Diddleiddleoo diddleiddleoo…”)

I chose to take French back then because I thought it was more sophisticated (nevermind that it isn’t very useful unless you plan to visit France or Quebec). I turned out to have a natural ability to pick up the language; I easily accumulated vocabulary words and became familiar with verb tenses. I was such a good French student that during my junior year, I learned two years worth of material in a single year.

But that’s where my problem started. Because I was learning at this accelerated pace, I spent most of my time in the back room studying on my own. I didn’t spend very much time hearing or speaking the language. My senior year, I was back in a class, but the teacher didn’t enforce the supposed rule that we had to speak only French in the classroom. Then, at the end of the year, we prepared for the Advanced Placement (AP) test. We crammed as much French into our brains as we could.

The exam was a disaster. (I should explain that I usually take tests very well; this was an exception.) The written part went fine, but the oral section threw me completely. I had to listen, translate, formulate and speak a response in maybe 10 seconds. Once I messed up one question, I missed the next question because I was still answering the last. I got so flustered that I scored a 2 on the exam (out of 5, which gives no college credit). Nobody from my class who took it did any better.

I blame it in large part on my teacher. Had she prepared us for the format of the oral section, I wouldn’t have been flustered. Simply telling us what it would be like would have helped; having us practice taking questions in the exam format would have been even better.

After that experience, and a whole year of being in her class, I was completely turned off to French, and languages in general. I took the required quarter of French my first quarter in college and forgot about it all as fast as I could.

(Flashback fades wavily into the present)

So then, a few months ago, I was invited to go to Mexico, and of course I accepted. My reluctance toward foreign language was overcome by the more tangible fear of being unable to communicate, so I got a “Spanish in 10 Minutes a Day” book and began learning.

I was very surprised to rediscover my aptitude for language. I’m picking up words very quickly, and just learned how to conjugate verbs yesterday. I’m still having trouble with pronunciation – I am used to pronouncing French words. Fortunately, Steve (my boyfriend / travelling companion) has an excellent ear for voices, so he is able to help me with how things should sound.

It’s very exciting to be enjoying language again.

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Eye Surgery: Entry Four

By kate on April 9th, 1999

I returned to TLC the next morning and underwent all the preliminaries again: consent forms, examination, etc. This time, Dr. Holland was waiting for me in the laser room, and I climbed into the chair again, a reclining chair such as you’d find in a dentist’s office.

Again, the speculum was applied to my eye, but it wasn’t nearly as bad this time, since it didn’t have to be as far open. The doctor took a tool that resembled an electric toothbrush and pressed it on my cornea. It was to loosen the outer layer; he had explained it to me in advance. But despite the anesthesia, I could feel the pressure and the vibration and cried out in surprise and pain.

The next step involved a tool the doctor called a “hockey stick” (we’re in Canada, remember). It was shaped like a hockey stick, but very small, and he used to to scrape off the outside of my cornea. I was expecting this, too, but having to hold still, with your eyes propped open, while someone scrapes at your eye, is very difficult. I couldn’t really feel the scraping, but the idea of it (and the fact I could see it, fuzzily) was hard to bear. I released some of the tension by squirming my legs around.

After that, the hard part was over, and I was placed under the laser for a very long 40 seconds. At this point, my eye has been propped open for five minutes or more. They’ve been putting drops in periodically, but not being able to blink is torture by this point. I experienced the laser as nothing more than a flashing light, and when it was done, the doctor put a “bandage contact” in my eye and removed the speculum. Relief.

I get a minute or two to rest before it is time for the other eye. Throughout the surgery, Dr. Holland has been extremely helpful – he kept a steady stream of encouragement coming during the hard parts. “Perfect. Doing good. Just a little longer… Perfect.” I can’t overstate how much that helped me.

Before I knew it, we began the other eye. The process was the same, and just as uncomfortable. Except the outer cornea on this eye was extra tough, so it took extra scraping. I gritted it out, though, and a few minutes later, both eyes were finished.

I lay with my eyes closed for fifteen minutes (as instructed), and Steve read me an article from a magazine. Soon afterwards, we left and stepped into the Vancouver sunshine. One side effect of the surgery was (temporary) extreme light sensitivity. They had given me a pair of large, Ray-Charles-like sunglasses, and I found myself wearing them indoors for the first two days.

As Steve guided me to the car, I could briefly open my tired eyes and evaluate my vision. It was very blurry, but it was a different kind of blurry than before the surgery. Even then, I could tell the surgery had been a success.

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Eye Surgery: Entry Three

By kate on April 8th, 1999

The eye surgery did not go quite as expected. I arrived in Vancouver, to the TLC office, and went through all the preliminary steps. I signed consent forms, was thoroughly examined, locally anesthetized, and sedated. They finally ushered me into “the laser room,” a semi-dark, cool room separated from an observation area by a glass wall. Steve sat outside the glass to watch.

The first step in LASIK is to prop open the eye. I sat while they tucked the speculum under my eyelids and pulled it open. It was at this point that the doctor realized my eyes may not open far enough. (There is a suction ring that must be placed on the eye, so a certain size opening is necessary.) He pulled harder on the speculum, to the point where I could feel it through the anesthesia. Still not enough. After consulting with his assistant, the doctor decided to inject a “freezing solution” near the outside corner of my eye to further relax the muscles.

The injection burned painfully. The doctor strained on the speculum to open my eye further, but could not. After twenty minutes of effort, he sighed, and informed me that I would not be able to get the LASIK procedure.

The news hit me with the force of a brick wall. All my adolescent glasses-related insecurities, all my emotional buildup for this day, and the sudden crushing knowledge that I was denied my dream. I dissolved into tears and loud, shuddering sobs. Steve rushed in and was informed of the situation. He comforted me for almost twenty minutes until I recovered enough to get up and move into one of the examining rooms. I laugh now at how that must have looked (through the glass wall) to other patients awaiting their turn.

In the examining room, TLC’s head doctor, Dr. Holland, came to speak with me. He explained that it was still possible for me to have PRK, an older procedure that didn’t require the suction ring. He offered to fit me in the next day since I had made a special trip. I took the booklets about PRK and told him I would decide that evening and call in the morning.

We returned to Steve’s parents’ house and I cried a lot longer. Finally, I pulled myself together, then began to read about PRK. With LASIK, a flap is cut in the cornea and peeled back, then the laser reshapes the inner cornea. With PRK, the outside of the cornea is simply removed. The end result is the same, but the healing time is longer.

After soliciting several opinions and much deliberation, I decided to get PRK.

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Eye Surgery: Entry Two

By kate on April 6th, 1999

In two days, I will be having laser vision correction.

If you don’t wear glasses or contacts, you probably have no idea what this means to me, someone who has been encumbered with them since third grade. I’ve been asked by people with good vision, “how can you pay so much money?”

To see the alarm clock in the morning. To not worry about being splashed in the face when swimming. To not be so affected by smoky bars. To be able to fall asleep anywhere, anytime, without having to get up and take out my contacts. To not have haloes around lights at night. To not have to require bottled water and soap when camping just to be able to see. To be able to wake up in the middle of the night during an emergency and not be half-blind. To not get dry eyes late at night. To not put fuzz in my eyes along with contacts. To be able to wake up ten minutes later every morning. To not have to buy contact supplies any more. To never again have people see me in my bespectacled ugliness.

And those are really just side effects. The real reason is simply – to see. To have eyes as good as everyone else’s. To not have bad vision be part of the definition of myself. This means so much to me that anytime I seriously think about having good vision, I start to choke up. I will probably be a bawling mess after my surgery, crying tears of joy.

I have explained the procedure to so many people since I signed up for it that I feel like an evangelist. Let me give you a quick summary. You can see more details here, at the website for TLC (The Laser Center), the company I chose. The procedure I will be undergoing is called LASIK, and it is the most advanced of the laser procedures. A flap is cut in the very top layer of the cornea, then folded back. The laser then re-shapes the inside of the cornea based on the prescription, then the flap is put back in place and allowed to sit for two minutes. After that time, it has adhered well enough that it will stay in place when the patient blinks. (It becomes completely adhered in about a week, I think.) The procedure takes about two or three minutes per eye, during which time the eye is anesthetized with eye drops. The patient is conscious throughout.

Healing is very quick. In most cases, patients can see well enough to drive after one day. Their vision reaches its best in 3-5 days. Exercise is forbidden for one week. Then, you have about 6 more visits with a local eye doctor for the next year. After that, you are required to have a yearly checkup. If you follow that, and fit other basic criteria, you are eligible for the TLC Lifetime Commitment, which guarantees that they’ll maintain your distance vision for the rest of your life for no extra charge.

How much does it cost? (Let me point out that I will only be discussing the prices at TLC. I chose them because they have been doing laser eye surgery longer than almost anyone, and have 60 locations in the US and Canada.) Here in the states, it is a flat $2000 per eye, which covers everything you need for a year. I am having my surgery in Vancouver, BC, because up there, they charge based on your prescription. For my moderate myopia, it is a little less than half price (once the currency conversion is done). The only other consideration is that post-op care is not covered at the Vancouver center. This costs $700 for a year, so it’s still cheaper.

The funny thing is now that I’m getting very close to my surgery, I catch myself having little wistful thoughts. I think maybe I’ll miss the precise, repetitious hand movements I performed every morning and evening. I think maybe I’ll miss the relaxing blur my vision becomes when my lenses are off. Then, of course, I come back to my senses. I certainly won’t miss losing 20+ minutes a day messing with my contacts. I can’t wait.

This surgery is so major that it will count in the short list of Important Events in my life. I want to commemorate it somehow… even though my eyes will be forever changed, it won’t be visible to anyone else. I’d like to do something that is visible to everyone, a ritual of sorts. So I decided to get a tattoo.

Now, hold on a minute before you get so surprised (if you know me, I’ve never wanted the permanency of a tattoo). I’ll be getting an inkless tattoo. That is, the design will be drawn on my skin with a needle as usual, but there will be no ink injected. This leaves a scar that lasts one or two years. Visible, ritualistic, significant, yet not a lifetime commitment. Below is the pattern I’ll be getting (remember that it will look like a scar: white skin on regular skin). It will be about half this size, and probably on the top of my wrist (though I haven’t decided for sure).

Not only do I simply like the look of this, it has some significance. It is called “Hrungnir’s Heart.” Hrungnir is a character in Viking mythology, a giant with a heart and mind of stone. Therefore, this tattoo will signify courage and strength: The courage to overlook unreasonable fears and reach for what I really want. The strength to bear what suffering is necessary to accomplish my dreams. (Go here for more on inkless tattoos.)It’s how I have always tried to live my life, and something I’m focusing on even more now.