What's in a Scar?
Wednesday, October 18, 2006

I am sitting almost cross-legged on my couch. The comfy gaucho pants that have become a nighttime staple for me throughout summer have fallen above my knees.

For some reason, the sight startles me.

I have, what are quite possibly, the most unsightly set of knees of someone of my age. Or, of someone of any age, for that matter.

But these knees and I have a special relationship. As unattractive as they might be, I’ve never shied away from them. Never did I refuse to wear a skirt or shorts or a dress – even to prom. Never have I apologized for their appearance.

Usually I don’t give them a passing glance. But just as when a word that you’ve used your whole life suddenly looks foreign on the page, the knees suddenly looked that way to me.

Perhaps it’s because, tonight, the summer tan that usually helps to mask them has long since faded, and the many scars – a finger’s width and length each – that surround these knees stand out even whiter now against my skin. Perhaps it’s because I’ve seen them less and less with the onslaught of recent cold weather. Or, perhaps, it’s because I’m going to be expecting a whole lot of them in the coming year.

As I trace the unsightly scars with my fingers, I think about the two surgeries I had on one – a scope to remove cartilage and then a reconstruction of my ACL and MCL – and the three on the other – a scope, a reconstruction, and then another surgery to remove a screw, designed to keep “new” ACL in place, that in a move of independence, wanted out.

I think about how, after blowing out my first knee, I ran disjointedly around one of the top floors of the Embassy Suites in Green Bay before my first appointment with the surgeon, trying – irrationally – to convince myself that if it didn’t hurt all that much, then I wasn’t injured that badly. I think about waking up from surgery each time, my leg in a mechanical cradle that bent it up and down to encourage range of motion – the pain of which made me alternately sick to my stomach and whish that they’d just taken the whole thing off altogether. About the torturous early morning and afternoon sessions of physical therapy that seemed to last an eternity. About others questioning if I’d ever ski race or run or do any number of things again.

And about how it was something I never seemed to question. I always believed, even in the most painful of times, that these knees would work again. I was diligent in my physical therapy until my knees became useful again, at which point I purposely treated them poorly. I didn’t take Advil when they ached and didn’t ice them nearly as much as I should have. I stopped wearing my braces far sooner than was recommended. I tried not to go out too soft for their sake during dryland training or in those first few ski races back.

And they rebelled. They screamed at me, day in and day out. But eventually the screaming became more of a whimper, until lately, when it has died out all together.

This year, I trained for a marathon, all the while expecting them to quit on me. But they easily carried me through five months of training, and then the marathon itself. They were dependable and they were strong.

It wasn’t until then that I had enough confidence in them to commit myself to an Ironman. But they seem to be on board now. And in return, I’ve made a promise to them – to gain a greater appreciation of swimming and biking so as to help deliver them from the pounding of frequent runs as we grow older, together.

Singer-songwriter Leonard Cohen wrote that “Children show scars like medals…a scar is what happens when the word is made flesh.” These scarred knees are my medals – a record of where I’ve been and who I am. They are mine, and I am glad for it.

Posted by Erin 1:39 PM 0 comments

I'm in love...
Monday, October 16, 2006

With a hunk of carbon. Yes, seriously.

I had heard it talked about, but never believed that one could actually develop a relationship with a bike.

Well, it's true.

I just got it this weekend, so we haven't spent a lot of time together yet. No long rides out into the country, no miles-upon-miles of quiet quality time.

Seeing as though I've mostly just sat and stared at it whenever we're in the same room, I think it's safe to say we're in the infatuation stage still. But I can't help daydreaming about the months to come...

Posted by Erin 3:37 PM 1 comments

The First of Very Small Steps
Sunday, October 08, 2006

It's been said that courage is simply the accumulation of small steps.

Right now, this is a heartening sentiment. Because almost one month ago today, I committed myself to something that's going to take a whole lot of courage: completing -- and competing in -- an Ironman. Ironman Wisconsin. Otherwise known as IM Moo. September 9, 2007.

It's been a lot of small, disjointed steps that have gotten me to the starting point of this journey that I'm about to embark on, not all of which I'm probably even aware of. But I can tell you exactly where the turning point was -- that blip in time separating a before, and an after.

Before. It was the second weekend of September 2005. An oppressively hot and muggy Saturday night. Drinks on the patio of the Flatiron Tavern in Madison with two friends. They reveled in the afterglow of having completed a sprint triathlon that day, and talk inevitably turned to Ironman Wisconsin, taking place the very next morning.

The three of us were in agreement: Doing an Ironman? Crazy. Insane. Impossible. No way, Jose. What, by god, would posses anyone to do such a thing? Crazy. Insane. Impossible.

After. The next afternoon, after completing a (lengthy for me, at the time) six-mile run in blistering heat and feeling proud of my accomplishment, I walked up to the Capitol square to watch the Ironman bike-to-run transition. I expected to see ripped, superhuman athletes pushing themselves further than the average person could ever conceive of doing. And I did.

But I also saw so much more.

I saw average people -- teachers and computer programmers, young and old, thin and portly -- in the midst of accomplishing something they might have never before dreamed of. I saw athletes cheering on athletes. Bystanders cheering on strangers -- sometimes running along with an athlete they didn't even know because he or she looked like they needed an extra lift. I saw a dad, who didn't see his family in time, turn around and run back to hug and kiss every one of them before continuing on the run. I saw all that is good in people playing itself out on this one day in this one race.

Standing alone in a sea of people on a hot summer day watching this, I got chills ... and then I cried.

And then I felt immensely silly.

It was, after all, just a race. And I'd been in races before. I was no stranger to downhill ski races and road races and track meets, or to competitions of other sorts, like horse shows. I'd raced slalom, giant slalom, and super-g at the Junior Olympics in Colorado. I'd shown at the American Quarter Horse World Championships. But this...this was altogether different.

Maybe it was the bigness of the Ironman -- the almost-insurmountability of doing it while trying to maintain a job, or a family, or any semblance of a life. Maybe it was the dedication -- not only of the athletes, but of their friends and families -- evident in the signs they held and the pride they exuded. Proud of the fact that they were out there that day, too -- part of the team that picked up groceries or cleaned the house or did any one of a thousand things just like that throughout the year so that their athlete could do the two-hour run or a five-hour bike or both, that had gotten them to that exact moment. Maybe it was all of that combined.

Whatever it was, it stayed with me for 365 days. And this past September -- when I again found myself standing on a noticeably less-crowded sidewalk, on a 50-degree day in a steady drizzle -- again, I got goosebumps. Again, I cried.

The next day, I signed up.

I was one of more than 2,000 people who managed to register before registration for IM Wisconsin closed in a record 45 minutes.

This is a big undertaking. Huge. Crazy. Insane. Almost-impossible.

It was my very first, very small, step...with many more to be taken in the next 11 months.

I'm terrified and nervous and constantly wondering what the hell I've gotten myself into. But I'm also incredibly excited. This is going to be an adventure for me -- and for my team (you know who you are). And I'm so looking forward to taking this ride with all of you.

Posted by Erin 6:34 PM 3 comments