Wednesday, March 14, 2018

Slip, Scream, Repeat - Spartan Sprint Greek Peak Reflections

As I walked sure footed through the house just over two years ago, with armloads of Christmas gifts that I was transporting from my car to the indoor hiding spot of the front hall closet, I would not see the blanket on the hard wood floor that I would slip on forcing my left leg out so quickly that the stress fracture, that was unbeknownst to me, would come apart snapping the top of my femur.  The surgery and long recovery, including 6 weeks on crutches in the winter, that followed would leave me with a brand new habit.  It is the screeching type of scream that lasts only a second, but seems to arise from the depths of my toes the minute I find myself slipping in any situation.  It can be ice on the driveway, or something as benign as a melted ice cube on the kitchen floor.  Nonetheless, it is there.  Every single time, it is there.

Saturday, I found myself taking on my first Spartan Race of the year.  It was the Winter Sprint at Greek Peak in Cortland, New York.  I had done this race last year.  I had it all under control.  Last year, it was three miles and brutally cold.  It was 12 when we started and 16 when we finished.  So, this year I kept saying I wasn't worried.  I had another year of training under my belt, and this was to be my fifth Spartan Race.  It would be warmer, a mere 32, and it would likely snow, but it wasn't 12, so I was pretty confident I had it handled.  What I didn't anticipate, was the change in weather, would dramatically change the race.  This year, in true Spartan style, the length was completely different.  At the finish our GPS read 5.39 miles, dramatically longer.  The winds proved to be a bit more punishing than last year, as the snow pelted our faces. 

Typically, anyone that races with me will tell you, I generally have one rule and that is when it comes to the experience, what happens on the course stays on the course.  This way, we feel a bit freer to voice our fears at the top of an obstacle, ok, that generally involves mostly me and my insane fear of heights.  The tapestry of four letter words that may exit our mouths can stay just where we left it, as a hovering cloud over the burpee station.  However, this race I will be bold enough to rat myself out.  What I did not plan on, in this race, were the abundance of two things.  First, there was mud.  Slushy wet deep mud that even the greatest of obstacle shoe could not necessarily grip onto.  Second, there was ice.  Much of the course by early afternoon was slick.  So, the continued slipping and sliding for miles allowed that scream I mentioned to come flying out of my mouth many times.  Foot slip, scream, repeat.  I will say this,  I was extremely fortunate to have an amazing team that patiently reminded me over and over that I was OK. 

Ultimately, I would find myself getting frustrated.  The screams were embarrassing, yet I could not seem to stop. At different points in the race, I would find myself stopped on one of  the declines simply hugging a tree wondering if I would ever be able to finish, stop screaming, and find sure footing again.  I began to think about an escape plan.  I would look around wondering if there was a way out.  The reality was, deep in the treeline four miles in, the only escape was through, one foot slip, one scream at a time.  I would see other racers who were so much bolder than I was in these moments, shimmying down the hill with the only vocal sound being a laugh or some sort of celebration of their conquering of the slippery slope. 

In the end, my team of six and I would jump the fire, get our medals and fight the ice the rest of the way down the mountain to the lodge.  In my five previous races, I had always been overcome at the finish line with emotion.  The joy of a hard fought battle, well rewarded with an awesome medal.  Not this time.  I was still living off the overwhelming uneasiness only fear can provide.


The next day, I would find myself in my obligatory Spartan Finisher's Shirt standing on the balcony of my room at the lodge, staring out over the mountain.  As I looked at the steep peaks that took so much out of me the day before, I was reminded of the multiple times in the past, a life challenge would suddenly nearly double in enormity and I would find myself hugging that proverbial tree on an icy mountain paralyzed with inactivity because things suddenly seemed so overwhelming.  However, I learned some things about hugging the actual tree on Saturday.  It's cold, it isn't any less icy and does not get me to the finish line any faster.  I realize now, the screams of fear along the way were really only my natural reflexes reminding me of a bad incident two years prior that is now a part of me just as much as the titanium screw in my hip.

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I can honestly say, I have done five Spartan Races and each race has taught me something new.  This race reminds me that sometimes life is twice as hard as you plan it to be, with twists you do not count on and reactions you wish you didn't have.  However, through it all, the goal is to let go of the tree on the icy mountain, take on the slippery slope even if it means you might fall, or end up sliding down on your butt, because truly all trials come to an end and the satisfaction from overcoming the paralysis of inactivity will make it all worth doing.  My faithful sidekick racer, my son, and I have been talking a lot about repeating this particular race for a third time next year.  As the blister on my right heel heals, and the windburn on my cheeks goes away, my initial reaction of,"no, not again" may change as I just may have to challenge myself to take a page out the more experienced racers' book and become less frustrated with those parts of myself I cannot totally control, and enjoy the ride down.  Today, as I place the medal on the rack for a fifth time, I can honestly say, I believe the best is yet to come.
Image may contain: Amy Kobs Summers and Jack Summers, people smiling, people standing, shoes and outdoor  

Image may contain: 7 people, including Irene Anna K, Lydia Zaluckyj, Jack Summers, Amy Kobs Summers, Karen Taft and Danielle Marie, people smiling, people standing and outdoor

Saturday, March 3, 2018

You're in the Jungle Baby

About 7 years ago, I was working as a nurse practitioner in a Level 1 Trauma Center in Charleston, West Virginia.  On the night shift, there was a young physician who would call for a pause in the provider area when she arrived.  We would gather around a tiny speaker as she ceremoniously would put her phone on a small speaker as we listened to,"Welcome to the Jungle" in its entirety prior to commencing our shift.  Somehow we needed to hear out loud,"do you know where you are?  You're in the jungle baby."  We would end the song mentally prepared for our night of high speed motor vehicle accidents, snake bites, local drug seekers and the occasional victim of the portable meth lab explosion.  The perfect song for the perfect circumstance. 
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I guess that habit stuck as there are still times I find myself with this playing into my headphones as I walk from my car to the current emergency room in New York that I work in.  Meth is not really a local favorite in Albany, and the trauma center is down the street, but where I am now, the patients are sick.  The volume is high and the waiting room full.  At any given moment, to an outsider it would appear loud and chaotic.  There are monitors beeping, phones ringing, other equipment alarming and people racing around to try to manage it all.  I suppose any ER is its own jungle to a certain degree. 

I would suspect that after 7 years of practicing this type of medicine on the heels of practicing neurosurgery for 10 years, my senses have dulled a bit to the noise that seems to exist in my own head when it comes to dealing with the rest of life.  The commitments of my home life, running two companies, two clinical positions, kids, family, race training....  perhaps I truly did not leave the chopping down the deep brush with a machete to be able to see the jungle creatures coming at me only at work.  In fact, I was pretty sure I generally live in the jungle routinely.

This brings me to a simple question posed by a client recently.  She put up a post wanting to know simply what it was other clients were working on.  A simple question meant to garner support for our collective goals.  As I read through the posts, I saw physical challenges of running a mile, conquering a race, or committing to a number of minutes of cardio each week.  There were diet challenges for things like giving up fast food or increasing vegetable intake.  These were all commendable things.  My clients setting goals and moving forward.  However, I read through all of this, post 60 hour work week in the ER, and even though I was home, I could still hear the noise of the ER despite being in my own living room as brain tried to prioritize all of the things in my life that had been placed on the back burner as I was at work all those hours. 

It was then that I realized I had plenty of physical goals and a clear path to reach them complete with schedule.  What I didn't have was quiet.  How often did I take a little time to just be still?  Much as I love yoga, work and endurance training for my next race has taken that over to a degree as of late.  How about an evening of doing nothing?  Well, work commitments have put a damper on that as well.  No, I think I was way more in the jungle than I would have realized.  So, I took the leap and committed to one simple thing.  Silence.  Ten minutes a day I would be silent.  No music, no phone calls, texts or social media.  I would take to time to attend to the silence and see what happened.  Although this seems like a little thing, simple enough, the jungle way of thinking is such a part of me, it actually has become more of a challenge than running a Spartan Race.

Since making the commitment for silence, I have had to schedule it like my workouts.  Some days this exists in my commute to work, some days, like yesterday, it exists sitting at my desk at home watching the snow as it falls into the pine trees in my back yard.  Today, the snow is thick.  The flakes were huge and my poor pine tree now has branches dragging on the ground due to the weight of 10 inches of fresh snow.  Yet, it is quiet.  It makes no sound.  There are no roaring lions, howling monkeys swinging from tree to tree, or boa constrictors hanging off the branches, yet at the same time it is powerful enough to take down a 25 foot pine.  As the silence allows me to toss out needless noise from my life in ten minute increments I begin to realize, that all along I had been ignoring the final phrase of the iconic Guns 'N Roses song, yes, you're in the jungle baby....and you're gonna die.  Needless chaos and noise had overtaken the power of silence.  Concerns over things I had no control over, or wasting the energy on the disappointment of a less than perfect workout,  or worrying about one too many macros today.  I was missing out on all the great things, like, wait...I worked 62 hours and didn't miss a workout, or maybe my macros were not perfect... but three years ago I was 85 pounds heavier and the only thing I counted was how many snacks were left in the kitchenette by the big TV.  I had missed the celebrating the success by simply attending to the noise.



Now I am beginning to see that the silence is just as necessary as the badass heavy metal mental preparation that was my norm.  I am finding it provides a new sense of recentering required to take on the day.  Yes, I still exit my car at work, headphones on and play,,"Welcome to the Jungle" as that is the environment I am entering, and I am a creature of habit.  The difference now is the ability to enter the jungle more prepared due to the power of the silence that came before it, and learning to shut it off at times so as the song goes, I'm not... gonna die.   Instead, I believe it is time to treat the silence like I do my cardio....and up my goals and see what else I can discover.  I have a feeling it is like I always say, I will find the best is yet to come.