Sweet Victory

The gun in my basement.

2018-02-16T04:46:00.001-08:00

In my basement, I have a safe. And in that safe, under expired passports and birth certificates, there's a gun. It's unloaded. Hasn't been loaded in probably twenty years, and yet every time I take it out, I check to make sure.

If you're a gun nerd, it's a 9 shot .22 revolver. On this website, it says that "it is true that many people have been killed by a .22 LR in the course of history," but the writer concludes that this weapon is a bad choice for self defense.

I didn't buy it for self defense. I didn't even buy it. It was my father's and after he died, my mother gave it me, along with an Elgin watch he'd worn for years. The watch was weathered and worn and I took it to be restored. The jeweler refused, saying it was worthless. Two decades later, the watch is still in my jewelry box. There's no need for it to be locked up.

I have no idea if this gun is in my possession legally. No idea if my father had a permit for it, or what my obligations were when it was passed to me.

I shot it several times with him when I was a child. Often, I'd take along a pellet rifle and we'd shoot beer cans. The handgun was louder, and harder for me to aim. It was a good time, but no better than going to Phillies games with him.

My own son is an adult, now, and we raised him more or less with the same attitudes towards guns that I was. That is to say, we weren't gun people or not-gun people. He went through a Nerf gun phase, and then a paint ball phase and finally an Airsoft phase. A few times, he discussed an interest in getting a "real" gun but not fervently.

Now far more interested in Sixers jerseys, last year my son asked me to help him sell his Airsoft guns, which only shoot tiny plastic pellets. Yet despite the fact that virtually any human can buy an AR15, if you list an Airsoft gun on Craigslist, the ad will be pulled down in minutes. I know this because I've tried.

A few years back, shortly after another school shooting that made me reconsider my relationship with the .22, I offered to sell it to a friend of mine. He is the only close friend I have that believes in fervent gun ownership and we had many productive conversations about how opposing views such as ours could come together. At any rate, he and his wife sold all of their possessions and bought an old sailboat, so he never bought my gun. I suspect the handgun he used to carry in his pickup is now hidden on the sailboat, but I don't know that for a fact. It's quite possible when he minimized his life, he decided it wasn't something he needed. While he believed quite strongly in gun rights, I think he believes in sailing more.

Many times after a massacre - be it Vegas or the school shooting of the week - I have an impulsive reaction to take the gun out of my safe, drive to the nearest police station and just give it to somebody. To finally cast my vote to not be one of "them." You know: the gun people. To be one of the white people in a world of black and white.

But I never do that. And for the most part, I'm glad I don't. The older I get, the more I believe that the world isn't simple, no matter how much we'd like it to be, and despite our cravings for black and white, truth is we are all drowning in a sea of grey. I want to help the world realize that a gun owner like myself can say the NRA is wrong. Flat out wrong. That certain weapons absolutely, positively should not be sold. To anyone. That the Constitution is as ripe for interpretation as any work that's ever been written. I'd like to be that guy.

But still, if somebody were to find a way to ensure that no school killings would ever happen again, or that even if it might work, and if that method were to involve me handing over my .22, I'd do it in a heartbeat.

Until then, it will be locked in my safe.

Jon Obst - RIP

2017-12-13T11:07:00.001-08:00

Last night, I learned that Jon Obst, one of the best diabetic ultra runners the world has known and my teammate on the original Team Type 1 Running Team, had passed away. For me and for everyone who knew Jon, the news was heartbreaking.

Since I learned about Jon's death, I've been thinking about the stories I knew about him. It would be entirely incorrect to say we were close. Near as I can count, we spent time together on four weekends for races, with a casual Facebook relationship in between and since. But the thing with Jon was, you didn't have to spend much time with him to feel close to him.

Before I begin, I want you to know how good of a runner Jon was. If you look at his results, you'll see that he completed 36 ultra races, finishing 11 of them on the podium. Anyone who has completed a single ultra knows how deep of a well it takes you to compete in such races. Keep in mind, this list doesn't include the races Jon didn't finish and anyone who knows Jon would tell he you had his share of those, too. For Jon, competing was ultimately as transcendent as finishing.

And when forced to, Jon wasn't opposed to running the roads either. I don't know how many marathons he completed in his life (I remember asking him and being amazed at the number), but I roomed with him the time he knocked out a speedy 2:48 in Tucson.

And of course, Jon was one of the diabetics forever bonded by their run across America, which I documented on this blog.

But those stories don't get to the heart of who Jon was. Maybe this one will

The weekend I met Jon for the first time was at the New Jersey Ultra Fest, the first official race of the Team Type 1 Running Team. It was the ideal venue for us, with five races of distances ranging from marathon up to 100 miles, all taking place on a modified T-shaped course about 8 miles long, giving us the ability to pass one another throughout the day - a huge boost for me, as this was my first 50 miler.

Prior to the race, I had asked Jon how he felt about his chances of winning the hundred and he admitted that while he always felt he could win, he admitted it seemed less likely this time. I asked him why, and he said, "Well, I just did a hundred two weeks ago."

"What?" I said. "Two weeks ago??" Jon admitted that he'd felt obligated to compete in the GRR100 because some of his friends had helped organize it. The GRR100 wasn't a major race. In fact, only 17 runners finished it. Jon was one of them, finishing in just under thirty hours.

And here he was, two weeks later, to do it again.

Mid-way through the day, I encountered Jon on the trail, running toward me, a huge smile on his face. Everyone who knew Jon knew that smile, and knew it was ten times wider when he was running. He didn't just wave at me. Didn't just give me a runner thumbs-up. He stopped, opened his arms wide and hugged me tightly. Told me how great this was. All of us, being here, together. He told me he loved me, and then he ran off into the day, smiling wider with each step.

If you look at the results of the New Jersey Ultra Fest in 2011, you won't find Jon among the finishers. Hours later, ninety miles into it, his body ravaged by the miles and his blood sugar out of control, he was forced to drop. But it's hard for me to remember that. What I remember most was how tight that hug had been. How sincere it had been. And how it was the first of many I'd get from Jon during the few occasions we raced together.

The weekend after I met Jon, I wrote this on my blog:
"I had the extreme pleasure of talking to Jon and Cale at dinner the night before and believe me when I tell you that Jon is an amazing person. His feelings are unbelievably close to the surface... so much so that you would think the emotional toll of everyday life - forget an ultra - would be difficult for him, but instead, it's the complete opposite. I've never seen someone just so.... engaged and content."

In retrospect, this passage bothers me. In the years since, I've come to believe I was half right. Jon wasn't always content because he always was so engaged. I was lucky enough to see him during one of those moments when he was most at peace.

I have two team photos of myself with Jon. One of them was taken - literally - within minutes of the team being together for the first time in New Jersey. The other - the one I'm posting here - was after the North Face Distance Challenge in Georgia. Jon and I both competed in the 50 miler that day.

I've noticed in both cases that Jon chose to position himself in the exact middle of the photo. It's where you'd never think the shortest guy would stand. But it's precisely where you'd expect someone to be if they were determined to soak up every last moment of the day, willing you to come closer for one more hug.

Left-Right: Ryan Jones, Matt Patrick, Marcus Grimm, Jon Obst, Tom Kingery, Benny Madrigal, Rhet Hulbert

Lyme Supplements - What I've Added

2017-08-03T11:01:00.001-07:00

One thing about the Internet - it does have a way of connecting people.

After my recent post about Lyme disease, I received a lot of messages from people. A fair amount of sympathy (which I don't wear well), a greater amount of empathy (which I adore) and a fair amount of advice.

Along the way, someone asked me about my current supplement. Rather than responding directly, I decided to put it all here, in case it's useful for anyone. The obvious caveat: your situation, symptoms, budget and tolerance will vary. Not might. Will.

Also, this post isn't going to discuss dietary changes I've made or are considering. As much as I can, I'm not super interested in removing things from my life. If eventually, I have to, fine. But for now, this is what I've added, and why.

The Basics

Prior to my lyme diagnosis, I was focused on my thyroid being to blame for my fatigue. (Like many diabetics, I'm on Synthroid.) In my research, I learned that these are common supplements for people with thyroid conditions:

B1
Zinc
Selenium
Magnesium

A couple notes:

1.) I started these about four months ago, and prior to my Lyme reinfection, had noticed an increase in energy.

2.) Magnesium is super cheap and is really good for diabetics and those who exercise a lot. When Missy Foy was training me years ago, that was the only supplement she insisted I go on. Also, because magnesium is linked to better sleep quality, it's the only supplement I take before bed. It doesn't make you groggy, if you prefer to take it in the AM, but it is linked to better sleep, so I take it then.

3.) B1 deficiency didn't turn up in a lot of Lyme articles that I read, but I've kept it in the routine. Zinc, Selenium and Magnesium often do.

D3

If you get a lot of sun and you don't wear a lot of sunscreen, you generally won't have a vitamin D deficiency, so it wasn't in my routine prior to the Lyme diagnosis. However, it is connected to Lyme AND my exercise levels have diminished, so I've added it.

Fairly Basic

I've added in a regular probiotic. That's good advice for anyone. Doubly good if you're on antibiotics (which kill good and bad bacteria), and triply good if you've got Lyme and need to restore good digestion. It's probably the only thing that - for me - gives instant, noticeable improvement.

However, there is one thing I'm doing a little differently...

In one podcast I listened to, the doctor mentioned that our guts have more than a trillion different bacteria and even the best probiotics have "only" 30 billion or so. So his advice is that you take a box (usually that's good for a month) and then switch brands. The idea here is that you're constantly introducing a variety of healthy bacteria. Obviously, if I discover one is the fountain of youth, I'll probably stick to it. But for now, that just makes sense.

Weirder

If you head down the rabbit hole of Lyme googling, you won't go far until you hear a lot about Gluthathione. Here's one good link about why we need it.

That said, there is ample argument amount whether or not gluthathione can survive stomach acid and get to the intestine, where it thrives. So, in addition to taking gluthathione, I'm also taking NAC and Milk Thistle, two supplements that are thought to increase the body's ability to produce its own gluthathione.

I should also mention that one of the Gluthathiones I'm taking (somehow I bought two) is in with Omega 3 fish oil, which is linked to joint improvement. My own experiments with Omega 3's through the years haven't yielded much value, but whatever. There's ton of literature on Omega 3's... just hasn't seemed to do anything for me.

Chlorella comes up as a good supplement for Lyme and the same doctor that talked about the probiotic advice I referenced mentioned it as a go-to for Lyme. I'm actually taking Macro Greens Superfood, but chose that superfood because it includes Chlorella, milk thistle and a probiotic.

And Just a Little Hippy

I mentioned in my last post that my wife is fan of essential oils. She has a detox blend. That one, I'm putting one drop on my tongue every night. Also, if you google essential oils and lyme, you will get a variety of recommendations. She had about five of them in her arsenal that we added into a custom blend. I rub that on my skin every night.

The Bright Side

2017-07-31T10:11:00.000-07:00

“And if you ever get scared, look on the bright side:

You’ve got a new life.” – Amos Lee

Last month, I was diagnosed with Lyme disease.

Since then, I’ve tried to write this essay a few times.

The first attempt followed a narrative arc rife with suspense, with a few years of frustrating doctors’ visits, mysterious symptoms that came and went and the all-around sentiment that the batteries that powered my body were no longer able to sustain a charge or be fully refueled at the end of the day.

But if you Google Lyme disease, you realize there’s nothing unique about that story. In fact, the reality that my own diagnosis came only two years after all of this started makes this a much shorter story than it is for many.

The theme of the second version was more pitiful, tinged with regret about what this had taken from me over the past two years and what it might take in the future. But honestly, that one didn’t get far at all. If there’s a good time for something like this to happen – and that’s debatable – this is it.

The infection likely came two years after I’d accomplished the goal of qualifying for and running the Boston Marathon and almost exactly a year after I’d completed my first and only one-hundred mile ultramarathon. Truth is, when it comes to running, my bucket is mostly full and my list nearly empty.

A third version drew parallels between Lyme and my diabetes. There are definitely similarities. Both are largely invisible to outsiders and both have robust online communities who tend to lament that fact. But as I’ve gone deeper into all of this, the differences are far greater.

To borrow an analogy, diabetes can be like staring down a bottomless well. While it’s amazingly complex and deeply personal, there’s no denying that there is a framework regarding what things will (generally) raise and lower blood sugar and this framework is quite rigid. Put fifty diabetics in a room and within thirty minutes, they’ll be laughing about how much they have in common.

In stark contrast, Lyme is more like looking at the ocean. Sure, it’s wet. But the depth, the tide, the winds and everything else vary from moment to moment and – most importantly – where you happen to be standing. People with Lyme consider themselves united, but it seems as if what unites them most is the uncertainty of it all. Uncertainty about everything. What to treat it with. How long it takes to get better. Even – sometimes – if they actually have it.

In the end, the only story I want to share about is what happens, next, even if that’s the hardest one to write. Because I’ve technically been diagnosed with a reinfection, I have somewhat of an idea but not really. (See the last paragraph.)

At this point, it seems my second bout is similar in symptoms to the first time. I’m unable to run more than two days in row, and if that’s how I spend my weekend, that’s pretty much it until the following Saturday. And those trail runs – though still as far as eight miles this past weekend – would probably be labeled by an observer as “hiker in a hurry.”

Overall fatigue has increased. Eight hours of sleep is enough during the week but my Friday nights work best if I get a solid twelve (or more). A weekend nap or two also helps.

Thus far, my mind is relatively clear. I’m eternally grateful for that, as my paycheck pretty much depends on my ability to listen, plan, reflect and react.

Treatment-wise, I’m throwing the kitchen sink at this. I’m just coming off three weeks of antibiotics and take enough supplements daily to make a nutritionist blush. If an article catches my eye, I hit the Vitamin Shoppe the next day. (If you want to derail a young buck’s sales pitch, just tell them you’re looking for something for Lyme that won’t disrupt your diabetes or thyroid medication. They will be glad to leave you to your browsing.)

Heather’s a fan of Essential Oils and while I don’t know if they help, the truth is I don’t know if any of this helps.

While I have a doctor’s appointment scheduled for later this week, I haven’t settled on which physician is going to help me call the shots over the next several months. One of the surprising things one learns about Lyme is that there are essentially two camps of doctors with views that are nearly diametrically opposed to one another. (To compare it to diabetes, it would be like going to an endocrinologist who insists you should (or shouldn’t) use an insulin pump and that anyone who suggests otherwise is simply wrong. Weird, right?)

At this point, I don’t even know what camp my own doctor is in, or if she has the experience to guide me, assuming we agree on a philosophy that I haven’t even adopted, yet. Fairly vague, yes?

After a particularly exhausting jaunt in the hills, yesterday, running and I agreed to see other people. At least for a while. But we’ve done that before, particularly over the past two years, and if I mean it, I can’t honestly say.

From my mid-twenties to my mid-thirties, the cracks in my life not filled with work and family were consumed by writing. Over the past decade, it’s been running. It’s not the idea of not running that bothers me, but rather what to pour in the cracks. Because one of the things I’ve come to believe is what fills in the cracks is often the mortar that helps hold it all together.

I have no shortage of ideas of what this will be. I have a gorgeous kayak, and while the waters of Pennsylvania pale in comparison to the swamps and bays of Florida, there are no ticks in the water. I’ve also become an amateur genealogist over the past several months, and have traced some of the original deeds of my ancestors but haven’t taken the time to visit the properties, mostly because I couldn’t find any nice trails nearby to make the trip worthwhile.

I’ve considered starting a podcast. I’ve thought about buying a metal detector.

Once, I took guitar lessons for six weeks.

For now, I’m taking Amos Lee’s advice. I’m looking on the bright side: I’ve got a new life.

First Love

2015-06-26T05:59:00.000-07:00

It’s never too late to find love.
I had a dog once, rebooted from a home that
Apparently had no toys.

When we got her, we offered up a buffet of
balls, bones and other expensive forms of
molded rubber and plastic. She ignored them all,
disinterested to find even a moment of bliss
- in any one of them.

She lived this way for quite some time
Seemingly okay with a life without material
- affection.

One day, she came across a cloth mouse
Long since discarded by the cat who now favored
- killing the real thing.

In a single moment, she became something
we’d never seen before. Bringing it everywhere
playfully pawing and chewing it, taking it to bed
searching for it when she entered a room
ignoring her food if it wasn’t beside her and unable
to focus on anything else.

I’d never seen her happier, or stupider.

It only took me a short while to stop enjoying her bliss and
start worrying what she’d do when
- she lost this.

Would she return to her previous mode of gentle comfort with the world?
Would she be
- grateful for the time she had with the mouse?
So obsessed with feeling that way again that she’d ignore her responsibilities,
meager as they are for a dog?

But I don’t think she ever considered any of that. She didn’t just adore that mouse
fiercely she loved it
fearlessly, which is probably the best way
- to love.

Father's Day 2015

2015-06-21T19:17:00.001-07:00

Were he alive, my father would not have been on Facebook.

He lived in three dimensions, not two.

He guzzled cheap beer when he was healthy and sipped blackberry brandy when he wasn't.

He cut firewood in the late fall, sometimes with an axe sometimes with a chainsaw but always with snot dripping from his nose.

I stacked the wood, going from annoyance to indignation until I finally came out the other end

With pride.

I held flashlights while he skinned his knuckles

On everything.

Late evening he'd watch the ballgame with a beer.

I'd trace the veins on his hands, smell the Old Spice on his face and the bubbles in his glass. The wounds on his hands seemed so fresh but not once

Not ever did I ever hear him

Complain and never

Not ever did I see him

-flinch.

Diabetes Camp

2015-06-20T19:11:00.001-07:00

We come, young, old, etc.

Those observing must wonder

What common trauma unites, bonds

Brings us all together

- for this.

First day check-ins, eager grins

Mostly some

Wondering what the hell they'd gotten

Into.

For some it takes hours for others

Days but a week for all is

Plenty good to feel a sense of

Something you haven't

- before.

We sweat, we cry, we bleed one

Drop at a time confirming, affirming that

What makes this perfect is nothing

- more

Than our own imperfections.

An observer might say oh:

Sweat, tears, blood - it's salt that

Brings you all here but they'd be dead

Wrong because it's the opposite of

- that.

It's the sweetness, the sugar the old

Folks called it, that thing that robs

Vision, limbs and even years from

Our clutches.

But not here.

Here, we run we ride we jump we climb

Higher and further away, away from

Doctors from doubt from anything that says

- No.

Here, we laugh at our failures, here we

Ponder possibilities consider new

Realities and think only about

What if or what could or if we're feeling

Particularly strong

- what will.

When it ends, we go back to reality. We leave

The common ground we return to

A world where many have our

Backs but few share

- our thoughts.

But it's funny.

I stand over the meter, the judge the

So-called interpreter of what in

The world I'm doing right and everything

- I do wrong.

And for a short time the numbers

Won't matter. If they are

High if they are low. A part of me will

Celebrate.

You see: so long as the numbers are

Crooked, I will have a place to go where

No matter what I will feel

- straight.

If they are wrong

I will feel

- right.

And if they are foreign

I will still feel

- home.

Diabetes Blog Week - Day 4 - Changes

2015-05-15T04:50:00.000-07:00

Today's topic: changes I want for diabetes.

Great topic, as it gets to the heart of my interest in coming to Aspire Ventures and doing work for Tempo Health.

To be clear, I don't need another diabetes app that allows me to log my stuff, even though we're building one. I don't need another place to put old news, and I really don't need another place to put data that's already been logged someplace else.

What I want and what I need is insight. I need something that can comb through my data and find the trends that will lead me, and others, to better control. While my relationship with my endo is good, giving them spreadsheets of data and watching them scan over it in a short appointment tells me that they need this information, too.

What we're attempting to do at Tempo Health is just that; focusing on turning all of that data into something that informs the patient and their caregiver about what matters inside of that data. From insights, there becomes a short jump to predictive analytics.

For example, if you know my blood sugar tends to run 10% higher on the third day of an infusion set being in, the insights can recommend higher basal rates or changing infusion sets a day sooner.

Or if you can determine my average rate of fall during aerobic exercise, the insights can offer tailored fueling and basal strategies for workouts.

We've been putting our data in a lot of places for a long time. It's time we got something back for it.

Along the way, the product has to provide everything needed so that the data is consistently uploaded into it. Predictive analytics. Artificial intelligence. These are all very real things, but they are fueled by data, so getting the data into the machine is a critical piece of the puzzle.

Diabetes Blog Week - Day 3 - Clean it Out

2015-05-13T05:10:00.001-07:00

Today's post asks, "What needs to be cleaned out about our diabetes, either physically or emotionally?"

I think you'll see some great posts today about the emotional burden of diabetes. You won't find that here, though.

What you will find is a short commentary about how health insurance has changed what it means to be a diabetic in the US.

What you see there is my back-up closet of supplies. There's probably about two years worth of Medtronic supplies (as well as two out of warranty pumps), and a much smaller supply of first generation Omnipods. (Let's be honest; the batteries in the Omnipods are likely shot and they should be disposed of.)

Those items were acquired during several years of auto-shipped supplies when I was on a low deductible insurance plan. The boxes showed up every quarter and they got added to the pile where they were stocked up as if I were preparing for either Diageddon or - more likely - unemployment.

What I didn't take a picture of is my first string closet of supplies, which consists of the stuff I'm actively using now; tSlim and Dexcom supplies. What you'd notice immediately about that supply is that it's much smaller, because it also corresponds to me switching to a high deductible healthcare plan, which means I'm paying out of pocket for a much greater portion of the supplies.

It's a much smaller stash, and if the larger one gives me comfort in knowing that if times get tough I can get by without having to go off the pump, the smaller one reminds me that the "quality of life" I enjoy using a pump and CGM comes with a real economic cost. Like a lot of Americans, the high deductible plan has forced me to think about the care I'm getting. I actually read the invoices. I consider when I need to order my next box of supplies.

And to be honest, though paying for this stuff stinks, that's because paying for anything stinks. I'm not certain it's inherently a bad thing to be thinking about your diabetes like a consumer and determining what's best for you. At the end of the day, I know I could get by without a pump and CGM; I did for several years. I wouldn't like it as much and my control would suffer, but in my case, not dramatically so. And I say all of this realizing that I am fortunate to be able to afford the choice. Not everyone is so lucky.

In the end, my closets represent the reality that in today's economy, we need to be active participants in how we treat and afford the treatments we feel are necessary. And we need to be thinking about the day when they might not be so full.

Diabetes Blog Week - Day 2 - Keep it to Yourself

2015-05-12T05:26:00.000-07:00

Originally I didn't know what I'd write about when asked what parts of diabetes "I keep to myself." Truth is, I don't keep a lot to myself. Opinions? Oh yeah, I've got them. About diabetes. About the next Star Wars movie. About rye whiskey. You ask, I've got something to say.

But there are certain things related to diabetes that I don't tend to talk about much and blog about even less. Not many, but a few.

1.) I don't talk much about infusion set failures that lead to high BGs. I've read some extremely emotional posts from diabetics who'll allow a bent cannula to be the catalyst for a tirade about the frustration of the disease. And I get it. It's annoying. But things - particularly mechanical things - fail. The added stress you feel because of the bad infusion set? It just pours gas on the fire, so I don't do it.

2.) I don't tell diabetic parents how they should feel or what they should do. I am a parent. I have diabetes. One plus one does not equal three, and those perspectives in my life don't give me a windows into yours. I'll be glad to share my experiences with you and attempt to give you perspective on how your child might feel, but I stay outside of the lines when it comes to advising parents of diabetics. It's one of the reasons I've never had a public opinion about Nightscout, because I honestly don't think I have the insight to offer one. I could argue either side of the "Would I put my kid on it?" question, so I choose to argue neither.

3.) Finally, and if you've ever seen me speak on the topic, you know this is one of my recurring lines, you'll never hear me say, "Diabetes doesn't make sense." Is it confusing? Yes. But in the end, what you're dealing with is fourth grade math and eighth grade chemistry. The fact that you got the problem wrong today doesn't change the fact that on some level, a simple miscalculation was made or a different type of chemical reaction occurred than the one you planned for. Some say diabetes is complex and there's certainly some truth to that, but I think the greater issue is that diabetes is relentless. It barely rewards yesterday's good blood sugars and demands constant attention. So you'll often hear me talk about the relentlessness of the disease and the discipline required to deal with it every day. But you won't hear me personify it as being mysterious, because I don't believe it is.

And finally, I think I should mention that the "public diabetic" I've become hasn't been a lifetime thing. I was diagnosed at 13 and was as likely to engage in conversations about my diabetes at that age as a typical 13 year old, meaning not at all. I didn't outright deny having it, as some will, but I also didn't wear it on my sleeve, either. My employers when I was younger were kept much more in the dark about it, too. My process to get to this point has been gradual and only began when I turned 30. I think that's important because I wouldn't want anyone to think that my openness is how they should be. Rather, it's just where I ended up.

Diabetes Blog Week - Post 1 - I Can

2015-05-11T06:12:00.000-07:00

So after nearly a year of not blogging, here I go committing to a week of posts for Diabetes Blog Week. A short disclaimer: I've actually been writing and posting a lot. Sometimes at LinkedIn. Sometimes on corporate blogs. But not here so much for the past year. Until this week. So pull up a chair and let's get to it.

Today's post topic is "I Can," and is supposed to talk about what I've done despite diabetes or other positive aspects T1 has brought to my life.

You might say I completed a hundred mile race "despite diabetes." I say that running ultramarathons requires an intimate knowledge of fueling, particularly carbohydrate fueling. Diabetes taught me to do that.

You might say I'm a relatively disciplined person "despite diabetes." I say diabetes was the first thing that taught me that discipline and consistency are some of the best ways to stay on top of diabetes, and these habits will flow over to other aspects of your life.

You might say I'm a generous person "despite diabetes." I say that coaching at Diabetes Training Camp is a parlor trick. I look like I'm giving up my time, experience and knowledge, but I get all of that back - and more - in spades. Generous? I feel like I'm stealing from them.

And most recently, you might say that I've managed to have a healthy professional career "despite diabetes." I say that my three decades of living with the disease was what first attracted me to come on board with Aspire Ventures, and their diabetes portfolio company, Tempo Health.

Those are just the first thoughts that come to mind. From friendships to speaking opportunities and more, I have a lot of things "despite diabetes." But the reality is that when I look myself in the mirror, there's no denying the truth. Much of what I've achieved hasn't been despite diabetes, but because of it.

Diabetes Training Camp - A Coach's Review, Part V - All the Rest

2014-06-27T06:01:00.001-07:00

The first four posts of the blog this week were to tell you about the DTC experience from my perspective, the ultimately limited lens of a running coach. But so much more happens beyond the trails and ex-phys testing.

There are mental skills lectures, lead by author and all-around superstar Carrie Cheadle. If she’s not the first to figure out that the mental make-up necessary to deal with diabetes mirrors that required by athletes, she’s at least the one who’s getting the most mileage out of it. Carrie’s talks are riveting and the campers gobble them up with gusto.

A team of dieticians are on-hand, too, with lessons in how to fuel the diabetic athlete, complete with taste tests and grocery store trips. Put carb counting on steroids and you begin to scratch the surface of what DTC offers for those interested in learning.

And, as mentioned previously, the medical skills lectures are simply on a higher plane than anything I’ve found anywhere else. Tactics and tricks you might have heard about four degrees removed are presented on PowerPoint slides, with information on how you could (or shouldn’t) try similar methods at home. These are some of the strategies I’ve tried to discuss with my own endo, who gives me a blank face and says he’s never heard of them. Somehow, Dr. Matt has managed to not just learn about these strategies, but has seen them applied to patients and he’s eager to dish out the result.

But what I’ve told you about are just the bricks and mortar of DTC. By itself, it’s enough for anyone to want to go, but truth be told, if that’s the reason people go the first time, I’m not particularly convinced that’s why they come back.

They come back because the relationships developed are strong. Very strong. Casual acquaintances become friends by week’s end, and friends become brothers and sisters. From staff to camper, the unity is unlike any I’ve ever found before.

When I was racing for Team Type 1, it was a similar bond, but because we never spent more than a weekend together and we were always focused on that weekend’s race, the opportunity for a connection as deep as what occurs at DTC simply wasn’t there. If Team Type 1 helped me to do battle with diabetes, DTC teaches me that I don’t always need to be at war with it.

The close of camp involves everyone – staff and campers alike – gathering in a circle. You share what you want, as much or as little as you prefer and with no assigned topic. There are laughs. There are tears.

Some people – like myself – sense an obligation to drop in a line or two about “next year” or “next camp.” It’s a parlor trick, of sorts, because if I’m distracted by the next camp, I don’t need to face the reality that this one has come to an end.

But like all great experiences, DTC packs so much into it that it’s impossible to walk away empty-handed. From relationships to training strategies and tactics, there is more than enough to take away with you to be okay with leaving.

It won’t be enough to carry us forever, we think, but it’s enough to get us started. And with a great start, who knows where we’ll finish?

Diabetes Training Camp, A Coach's Perspective, Part IV - A Little Better

2014-06-26T04:13:00.001-07:00

Last year, my first year at Diabetes Training Camp, they added something new, courtesy of Rob Powell, a CDE who’s also an exercise physiologist. What they added was a series of tests so that one could benchmark their current ability in terms of aerobic endurance, flexibility and core strength.

Last year, I had confirmed my existence as a one-trick pony with a stellar performance in the 1.5 mile run, followed by outright failures in everything else. And I don’t mean poor performances, either. I mean, I failed to register on the charts for flexibility and core strength. I attribute this to the fact that at the time I was spending exactly zero time on flexibility and core strength. Funny how those tests work.

Going into the 1.5 mile run, I didn’t really have an interest in going all-out. Coming off a marathon three weeks prior, I knew where I was fitness-wise, and coming two days off a 20+ mile training run, I knew a peak performance was unlikely. I finished it in 9:27, good enough for VDot comp of 48, a little under the 51 or so I was last year but enough within shouting distance to not lose sleep over it.

After that, I repeated the core test and once again proved what I tell my teenagers nightly during the school year: that if you don’t study for a test, you likely won’t do well. I failed miserably.

I was curious, however, to repeat the flexibility test. Last year at DTC, I had been coming off a hundred mile race three months prior, and I recall coming into the test still feeling particularly robot-stiff, even for me. After I failed to attain even a minimal score, I became a pet project for many of the camp yogis and left with seriously designs about developing serious flexibility.

Rob Powell disagreed, telling me, “You’re a runner. Runners don’t change.”

And mostly he was right. Over the next year, I didn’t take a single yoga class and not once did I descend from my easy chair for thirty minutes of dynamic stretching or even static stretching. Truth be told, I still don’t know the difference between the two.

Still, the test did make a small difference in my life and if I didn’t carve out dedicated stretching routines, I at least tried to be more cognizant of stretching after most of my runs. No more than three or four stretches and no more than five minutes at most, which is why I was shocked that when I went into the flexibility test, I was able to at least register a score of 6.

I laughed in delight of this. While a 6 wouldn’t grant me Gumby-like status, surely this would vault me into the 10th percentile, I assumed. Powell looked at his tables for confirmation.

“Nope,” he said, failing to hide a small grin. “You need an extra inch to crack the bottom 10th percentile.” With the campers, Powell is kind to a fault. He saves all of his wonder at the imbalances of the human form entirely for me. I return the favor by pointing out endless accusations of his flawed test methodologies, based on my liberal arts degree and the years of experience I have obtained working in marketing.

The following day, I eked out that inch, and managed to hold my hamstrings together while I did it. Now I at least know that one in every ten men in America is less flexible than I. It’s a start.

And of course, that’s really the point of Powell’s torture tests; to allow you to see where you are, so that you have a place to build from. Whether the results are good or bad, they’re honest and give you a place to grow from.

Later in the week, I was treated to some new functional mobility tests. I didn’t fail them, outright. If I were a home and you were a potential buyer, the inspector would likely tell you I have charm and would provide your family with years of comfort and shelter. Still, you’d probably be warned that it might be wise to save up for a new furnace, because the existing one had seen better days, and had the potential to leave you high and dry on a cold, winter’s night.

So now I have that to think about when I’m doing my workouts, too.

As a coach, I also like to use the aerobic test to understand the baseline for the people I’m building programs for. One of this year’s campers had stated a goal of qualifying for Boston at a marathon in October. Training for a marathon is difficult and requires the proper plan and a healthy build. But, truth be told, it also takes some genetic ability and a reasonable fitness base. Powell’s test of our camper confirmed she has the right stuff; it’s just a matter of developing the right plan to utilize said stuff.

So to the few dozen men in America less flexible than I, I say, "There's hope for you." Not gymnast hope, mind you, but at least the hope that you might be able to extend beyond your kneecaps some day.

Diabetes Training Camp: A Coach's Perspective, Part III - The First Run

2014-06-25T04:26:00.000-07:00

Everyone is nervous for the first run or ride or swim of camp. Here’s why:

The campers are concerned that they will be the slow ones, the huffers and puffers holding back the fit and the fast. The fact that nobody is concerned that they will be the fit the fast says something about human nature and how we all have a tendency to underestimate our abilities.

The coaches aren’t concerned about having huffers and puffers along with the fit and the fast. That’s how things always are. And as for me, I know that where you are in the pack often says more about the genetic stuff your parents gave you than what you’ve done with it. But myself and the other coaches are concerned that the gap between the two groups is small enough that we can provide coaching, support or guidance at any point, and that everyone feels safe and accomplished throughout the workout.

The med staff on the workouts also walk a fine line. They want the campers to feel safe but also want to encourage them to experiment. After all, the lectures contain workout and fueling strategies for diabetics that some of the campers have never tried. What better environment to test them out in than one where you’re surrounded by diabetics with meters and sugar?

Based on feedback from last year’s camp, this was also the first year we officially added a walking program, with shorter routes but over similar terrain, so not to cheat the campers out of the best sights along the way. The walking program proved popular during the week for those either beginning an exercise routine or rehabilitating injuries.

To address the large number of runners and walkers, DTC utilizes a very high staff to camper ratio, and each coach tries to spread their team out among the field.

As for me, I try to hold the pack of runners together as long as possible and ensure that the moment a camper wants to drop off the pace, a staff member is nearby and can continue the workout with the camper. Periodically, we also regroup for blood sugar checks, sugar recharges, etc. And more than anything, I want to talk to them about running, with a little diabetes filled in, because that’s real life. I try to promote a lifestyle where diabetes is the condiment and not the meat, not the other way around, and I aim to make my workouts the same way.

Inevitably, it becomes a bit of give and take. The faster runners get more consultation about training during the workout, while the slower ones get a sense of accomplishment from going further or faster than they imagined they would. The greatest sense of satisfaction for me often comes when someone finishes a few minutes behind the main pack, but is grinning from ear to ear while the people at the front of the pack are continuing to ask questions about their training. That’s what success looks like and what I aim for on every run. I make a note of what I talked about with each of them, so that I can address other aspects of training or diabetes after the run, either during meals or during time allotted for conversations with the coaches.

For the faster runners, we try to focus on what an easy aerobic pace feels like, either by heartrate or effort. It’s a key component to training, and when the campers watch their BG plummet when running easy, it’s a major A-Ha moment and one of the times where – for the moment at least – the disease behaves exactly as it’s supposed to.

And, of course, I also relish the conversations that are going on all around me that don’t even include me. Some of these involve diabetes, but many of them don’t, and again, that’s kind of the point – to feel like a runner with opinions about a lot of things besides blood sugar.

I took two groups of runners out on the first day of camp, a simple 5k loop with a little trail thrown in to see how they’d react. They responded with smiles, aside from when some of the westerners learned first-hand what burn hazel was. But then again, what’s a good trail run without a little surprise?

Diabetes Training Camp – A Coach’s Review, Part II

2014-06-24T05:07:00.000-07:00

“I’m heading over to the track for some 400s. Want to join me?”

I glanced at my watch. It was 9:30AM. I was scheduled to make up DTC camper beds at 10AM. I was dressed for the latter, not the former. My legs were heavy from the previous day’s twenty-one mile run and I hadn’t planned on running on this day, the day the campers would arrive after lunch.

“Sure,” I said. “Give me two minutes to change,” and a half hour later I was coming back from the track with two-time Ironman Lyndsay Riffe. We made the campers’ beds up, doing our best not the drip sweat on their clean sheets.

Immediately, I was brought back to one of the purposes of camp, which was to not let a moment, or thirty minutes in this case, go to waste. Lyndsay is one of the best I know at filling any vacuum of time with activity. The fact that her workouts didn’t often make sense (as the time I caught her inserting planks into a stretching routine) are more a symptom of her spontaneity than any lack of knowledge about how to break a good sweat.

On my own, I’m a curmudgeon about my workouts, making certain I have the right gear, the right nutrition, the right music, etc. if I’m going to head out for a run. Seeing Lyndsay reminded me that, for all intents and purposes, the only thing you need to do a workout is time, and not much of it at that. And if a plank isn’t part of a stretching routine, so what? They’re still good for you, aren’t they?

Though camper registration was scheduled to open at one, when I arrived to help with check-in (my job was to escort the campers from where they picked up their key to the dorm where they’d be all week), three to four were already waiting, a stark contrast to last year, when the first camper had rolled in about thirty minutes after we’d opened for business.

I said it several times that day, and it’s true: camper registration is one of my favorite parts of the week. Excitement and trepidation run high and I enjoy being one of the first staff members to meet and greet those who’ve travelled so far to get here.

It’s at these moments that the biographical sketches we’d read the day before become real and the responsibility and opportunity of the coming week makes itself known. I showed off my homefield advantage during the short walk from registration to the dorm, pointing out a few facts about the college and Lancaster, while asking where the campers had come from.

“I’m terrified,” one of them shared with me, though her smile suggested it was more like she was hopeful she didn’t need to be terrified and I told her she had no reason to be.

After dropping them off at the dorms, where they were warmly accepted by other team members, I jogged back to registration to do it all again. In general, I noted three types of campers. The alumni, as confident as upperclassmen returning to campus for their senior years, full of hugs, good natured ribbing, and overall elation about coming back. Another large group of newer campers, ones who thought they knew what they were getting into, but weren’t entirely sure. And as always, a small number, very small, whom you could tell that maybe were here because somebody else thought it would be a good idea for them. Perhaps a parent or a spouse. Perhaps in their hearts, they knew it was a good idea but wouldn’t have pulled the trigger themselves. To these people, I tried to walk a little slower and talk a little lower; to convey comfort rather than excitement. As the writer Richard Russo said, “Most people don’t want to be entertained. They want to be comforted.” I remind myself of that phrase at times like this.

After a first dinner together, we held our first meetings of the week. Make no mistake: the camp offers a full agenda, with workouts and programs that run from immediately after breakfast right up until bedtime. Participation for everything is voluntary, of course, but a camper not interested in downtime can accomplish their goal without much effort.

The staff all had the opportunity to address the campers and discuss their plan for the week. My goal in my presentation was simple: tell them they wouldn’t find the runs too hard or too long and assure them some of the most scenic routes available.

After we’d all presented (I preferred to think of it as lobbying, as I had no intention of letting this large group of runners spend their weeks on bicycles, much as I love my co-coaches), Dr. Matt Corcoran gave his first of many lectures that week designed for the diabetic athlete. These lectures serve as the key difference from anything many of the campers had seen before. Rather than discussing the disease or possible outcomes, these lectures were all about optimizing lifestyle and performance. And as I knew they would, the campers, tired as they were from a long day of travel, listened intently.

Diabetes Training Camp - A Coach's Review - Part 1

2014-06-23T07:43:00.003-07:00

Last week, I participated in my second Diabetes Training Camp at Franklin & Marshall College in my home of Lancaster, PA. The fact that the only camp of this type is four miles from my home is just coincidence, though I was reminded by a friend recently that there are no such thing as coincidences, so we’ll leave it at that.

Though it seems incredibly difficult to condense the week’s worth of learnings, emotions and activities into a cohesive review, it also seems a worthy challenge. If a prospective attendee finds value in these words, great. If an alumni of the camp can look upon these thoughts and be reminded of their own high-points, all the better. But in the end, I’m really writing these posts for me, so that I can capture my memories while they remain fresh.

To the reader, it’s important you know my role in all of this, small as it was. Among a staff of a dozen or so, I’m the Running Coach, a position I picked up a year ago. I’m a member of the Coaching team, which comprises of a Head Coach (who also serves as the Head of the cycling program, an Assistant Cycling Coach and a Swimming Coach). There are similar sized mental skills teams, medical and nutritional teams, as well as one Exercise Physiologist. And of course, none of this would work without a crack admin team that puts it all together. In short, it’s a big team with a goal of providing a personalized holistic program for campers.

As Running Coach, I’m there to choose the routes for daily workouts and provide insight into the proper way to develop and/or execute a running program. As one of the staff with diabetes, this often also involves discussing the ramifications of the workouts on blood sugar.

The campers this year consisted of two dozen or so (If you notice the 1:2 ratio for staffers to camp, you’ve already picked up on something unique about DTC), coming from as nearby as Leola, PA (15 minutes) to Canada and California. Largely promoted by word of mouth and through social media, it’s a small, intimate camp.

Though my further posts will attempt to portray the entirety of the DTC experience, there is nothing greater I can say than this: forty percent of the campers were alumni from previous years, and in the weeks that led up to camp, they were joined by many more on social media lamenting the fact that they couldn’t return this year.

The campers had age differences of more than forty years, and experience with diabetes ranging from one to forty-seven years. Athletic experiences ranged from minimal to marathons, and goals from finish a 5k to qualify for the Boston Marathon. It’s a diverse crowd, to be sure, but if that might make people uncomfortable early on, it’s likely one of the most important reasons the camper bond becomes so great by the end. As human beings, we seem hardwired to be able to spot the differences among us and can forget the magic that comes from an understanding of how similar we all are.

The day before the campers arrived consisted of staff training, most of which involved reviewing the bios of the incoming campers. I was excited, if a little nervous. My experience the previous year had been with a cycling-heavy camp, and my running pack rarely outnumbered a half dozen. This year, the number of campers with running experience and goals was more than twice that. Coupled with a new walking program for campers just beginning an exercise routine, it was obvious to me from the beginning that I’d be a lot busier this year, which was fine.

I went to bed that night excited for tomorrow when I’d be able to put faces to the goals, hopes and concerns I’d been learning about all day. Chances are, my own feelings would’ve made sleep difficult but I’d had an early morning long run prior to orientation. I pulled the blanket of fatigue up over my head and slept the sleep of a man who knows an exhausting and exciting experience was just the around the corner and I'd be wise to be ready for it.

Killing Time

2014-02-03T11:34:00.002-08:00

So yesterday I knocked out a 20 mile run at 8:19 pace, the first I've gone that fast on a long run in more than a year and a half. It would be impressive, I suppose, if I were actually training for something.

This was my 4th (or 5th? 3rd?) 20 miler in this build, mostly through 50 mile weeks, though the word "build" assumes one is building toward something and I've been as flip-floppy as a politician for quite some time now. A month ago I talked about throwing some 5 hour runs together for the NJ Ultra Fest, but a lack of ultra motivation and an over-abundance of snow have prevented that. Right now, I'm kind of thinking about peaking for the Bob Potts Marathon, but again, that means I probably should actually put a plan together, as I'm not fast enough to get fast without planning my plan and working the plan.

Why I feel this way... I have no idea, and I don't like being so... aimless. But work's been crazy, the house remodeling (thankfully 99.99% done) has been crazy and life has just been well... crazy. It hasn't kept me from running, but it's kept me from caring enough to be intentional about my running. So I bang out the miles, keep the beer belly to a manageable level and hope a goal makes itself known.

And on the long miles, I think of songs that mention killing time. From Clint Black crooning that this "killin' time is killin' me," to Meat Loaf's, "You were only killing time and it'll kill you right back," I'm aware that the mileage is probably a bit too much to just be goofy about it.

But I think I kind of know what I want: at least today.

After this weekend's long run, I'll likely miss two weekends in a row - one for pleasure travel, one for work. That will force be to do a cut-back period, which will set me up at the end of the month for a more solid build heading into April and May, and hopefully a race or two I'm determined to excel at.

Diabetes-wise, well it just rolls on. Yesterday's run was as steady BG-wise as it was pace-wise... with levels between 155-168 the whole way. I've been wearing the Dexcom, rocking the temporary basals, etc... nothing special, which is what diabetes tends to like best.

Star Rock Cross - First Cyclocross Race

2013-10-21T06:50:00.000-07:00

After 8ish weeks of diligent cycling and four(!) skills practices, there was no denying it on Saturday morning: it was time for my first cyclocross race.

I arrived at the venue early and looked out at the beautiful course, trying to determine how technical the turns would be. "They don't look bad at all," I thought. "This might go OK."

I went to the registration booth, where the process was flawless. They were expecting me, given that I'd already given them money. I had to give them a bit more for my one day license, but that was expected, too.

There was still a ton of time left but I decided to kit up and ride the course to get a feel for it. And that's when the panic set in.

Despite how the course looked to me from the outside, it turned out that when I see a turn off of my bike, I don't know, yet, how bad I am on the bike. Negotiating the turns, for me, was tricky. Incredibly tricky. Other guys doing warmups flew by me, while I went through turns trying to stay on the right side of the tape. One time I missed. That's right: I broke the tape on the warm-up, on a turn that I would say didn't even look that bad. I committed an offense that could get you DQd from the race... on the warm-up.

I went back to warming up on the road and seriously considered just not racing at all. "It isn't fair to the other racers," I thought. "I don't want to screw up their races. You just need a lot more practice." Excuses. Excuses. Excuses.

It's times like these that I'm very grateful for diabetes, something that doesn't give you the opportunity to quit. Inevitably, when I think something like, "Maybe I won't do this race," I follow it up with, "Great, and maybe you won't take your insulin tomorrow." Seeing how silly the second statement is makes the first statement seem silly, too, and I resolve myself to doing whatever it is I've got planned.

Still, I made the decision that rather than start mid-pack, as my registration number allowed me to, I was going to start last. Very last. As in last man standing. I was going to take this opportunity to learn and observe. When they called my number for lineup, I responded, "No thanks... I'm good right here," which brought chuckles from many in the pack. "I like how you think," one older guy remarked.

Don't believe me? Here's a great pic of the second half of the pack. That's me, lining up at the very rear.

Then we were off and I followed the pack up a short macadam hill before we turned onto the course.

The first lap was dicey for me and I made it a point to concentrate on the turns and focus on staying upright. I did that and made it through the barriers with no problems. (In fact, my skills practice had prepared me quite well for the barriers and run-ups. Every technical problem I faced was when I was on the bike.)

Midway through the first lap, I realized I was actually going to pass someone, which was pretty exciting for me. I waited for a slight uphill and made my move. "I'm not last! I'm not last!" I said to myself and for the first and last time all day stopped paying attention to the course. Within five seconds I had wiped out, taking a bunch of tape with me. "Shit!" I yelled as the guy I'd just passed went by me.

While I heard the emcee call for a tape repair on the upper section of course, I struggled to return to the action before they could DQ me, which I did. A short while later, I passed the first guy again, but made it a point to get too excited for myself.

The end of the first lap brought the first run-up and again, this went better than expected. In fact, after the race, my wife would say, "You ran with your bike very well compared to a lot of them. It's a shame there's not more of that for you."

On the second lap, I found myself closing in on another racer. He was technically a much better than I, but my running fitness meant that when the course was challenging, I was getting closer, but before I could make a move past him, his chain snapped. I felt bad for him, but I also felt bad for me, because once I went by him, I realized that the gap to the next racer was too much to bridge. My passing people was over before it had even really begun.

The second lap also brought with it my second (and worse) crash, when I dismounted on the macadam prior to the run up. My cleat was so muddy that my foot slid out from under me. The impact twisted my brake hood and I had to stop to yank it back into position after the run-up.

Despite the crashes and despite my nerves, the best thing I noticed was what happened to me during the laps. The best part about being a technically horrible rider is how much better you get just from being out there. I had gotten a few emails with technical advice in the days prior to the race, and I said the tips to myself to improve as much as possible By the third lap, I wasn't as intimidated by the turns anymore, and by the fourth lap, I could even agree with those who said it wasn't a technically difficult course. And on all of the laps, I was having fun. In fact, what I think I loved most about racing was how much concentration it took. Unlike running, where I can get distracted by lots of things, every moment during this race was spent living in that moment, which was very cool.

Cyclocross is supposed to be a sport where you're redlining your effort for 40 minutes, but my abilities don't allow for that at this time. On the technical sections of the course, I found myself riding my brakes, not giving much of an effort, and then moving into VOMax intervals where I felt confident in my abilities. But by the last lap, I felt I was closer to doing the sport the way it's meant to be done, and I was getting a bit more gassed. When a friend of mine lapped me, I confirmed with him that this was the end, and I finished as strongly as I could.

My blood sugar at the end was 170. I had made the decision to disconnect my insulin pump prior to the race, so that I wouldn't break it in a crash. While I knew this would raise the BG, I also knew that of all the problems I'd be facing during the race, my blood sugar wouldn't be the major limiter in my performance. I clipped the pump back on after the race and had things down to 100 within a couple of hours.

In the end, I was the last finisher. The guy I'd passed opted to DNF. In addition to the guy who lost his chain when I was close to passing him, there was another mechanical DNF. While I was a little bummed to be the last finisher, truth is I wasn't that disappointed. When you're learning so much and feeling like you're getting so much better, each time, focusing on the negative just seems pointless. I have no reason to believe I can get good at cyclocross, but I have every reason to believe I can continue to get better, so right now, that's the plan.

Part of this grand experiment of mine has been to figure out if I want to be a bicycle rider or racer. They are different disciplines with different challenges and rewards. I'm still not certain where I'll wind up but after I left the race and was driving home, I came across a pack of riders from the local cycling club. I watched in my rearview mirror and noticed they missed a turn that would've delivered them to the cyclocross race. "What a shame," I thought. "They don't know what they're missing."

Two Days from My First Cyclocross Race

2013-10-17T06:27:00.000-07:00

So seeking a break from running, I now find myself two days from my first cyclocross race.

In the past eight weeks, I've been mostly loyal to riding. I've only run 4-5 times, including picking up 2nd place in my AG at a 5k race. I've been riding over most of my lunch hours, and have gone longish on most weekends.

For the past 4 weeks, I've attended a cyclocross skills practice, along with 5-8 other riders, all of whom have more experience than I.

On one hand, I've gotten a lot better and I've learned a ton. On the other hand, it's a tricky sport and I am still very bad at it. I haven't fallen in about 2 weeks, but every technical turn puts me further behind the other riders. Add this to the fact that running fitness isn't cycling fitness and you come up with the reality that on every test race I've done with the weekly pack, I've finished last, and not by a little. Though bruising on the ego, I love these "scrimmages" because I feel they've prepared me - a little - for what Saturday will be like.

Most weeks, I go to practice and learn a new skill. I'm horrible at it at first and by the end of the clinic have more confidence that if confronted with the situation during a race, I might be able to get through it. But that's a far cry from competence.

It's an interesting experiment, to be sure: to go from running, where I'm comfortable in the front to such a technical experience, where I'm way behind. Mostly, it's been positive. Being last has taught me that you get almost all of the benefits as the people do in the front. You still feel the burn and satisfaction of a good workout. You still feel the pride of improvement. Competition is exciting, whether you're fighting for first place, fourth place, or fighting to stay out of last place.

In the end, I've concluded that the only thing coming in last doesn't give you is the confidence that at some point, you won't, which is why going into my first race, I've set a goal to not come in last, but have absolutely no idea if that's even feasible.

My wife has told me (correctly) that it doesn't even matter if I do come in last, and I agree with that, conceptually. But when I'm on the course, I want something to go for besides a strong effort, so that's what make sense to me. In the end, though, I know enough that how I'll feel about my performance will have nothing to do with my finishing place and everything to do with how I feel about my skills and the ability to make a strong effort when my skills aren't being tested.

In cyclocross, you can see who else is signed up for races in advance. This also has its good points and its bad points. On one hand, I can see the handful of guys like me who are near the beginner level, which gives me hope that my goal might be attainable. On the other hand, scrolling through previous results of most of the guys in my race confirms what I already know - I will be way behind most of them. And of course, I'm experienced to know that once the race starts, I won't be thinking about the other guys at all, but only about trying to put together a strong effort based on everything I've learned. And, to be sure, I have learned a lot. Hopefully, it will be enough.

First Real Cyclocross Practice Recap

2013-09-27T13:45:00.000-07:00

I've been curious about cyclocross for years. Whether that's because I think the running parts can make up for my lack of cycling prowess or simply because it's a sport nobody outside of Belgium has ever heard of is anybody's guess. But regardless, I finally made up my mind that this year I'd dip my toe in the pool.

Coincidentally, the local paper let me know that there's a sort of weekly practice clinic that happens here in Lancaster, so when I finished my century ride last weekend, I decided okie-dokie, let's change the tires on the bike and go.

Except, I didn't do that first because I had never practiced cyclocross skills and it seemed to me that before I showed up at a real practice, I should at least understand the basic concepts.

I watched this youtube video which makes dismounts look incredibly easy. I quickly learned they're not. The guy in that video is a jerk for even pretending that it's half that easy. I went to the local high school and rode around a soccer field practicing dismounts, while teenagers in phys ed class watched, no doubt wondering what I was doing. Best as I could tell, it appeared I was trying to abandon my bicycle, as if it were on fire. It appeared I wasn't successful. When I was successful, I tried to jump over white lines in the field, in an effort to simulate the one foot tall barriers in real cyclocross races. Impossible as it might be to believe, I tripped over the paint many times.

After two of these trial runs, I finally went to my first real practice, which was attended by seven other riders, none so green as me, though - true to what I'd been assured - they welcomed me with open arms. Or rather, they would've if their arms hadn't been navigating their handlebars through the serpentine course that rounded trees. Trees, which I might add, that were at their peak period of shedding crab apples. It turns out if a round tire hits a round crab apple, the opposite of traction is the result.

Once through the serpentine, the course followed a relatively flat grass path. This part was fun, but didn't last very long. From there we descended down a hill where all of the riders dismounted their bikes to carry them up single-track into the woods. This was the running I'd longed for! Alas, it didn't last very long and the bike on my back effectively disguised the fact that I was doing something I'm considered to be relatively good at.

Upon remounting the bike the trail hit a particularly treacherous section of elevated roots. Of course, I didn't know it was treacherous when the people in front of me crossed it as if it were nothing. I only learned it was treacherous when I tried to go up on it and found myself parallel to the ground immediately. (We'd ride this trail two more times the same night. The second time I got lucky. The third time I fell again, and I'm fairly certain my one shoulder is now lower than the other one.)

After that, we practiced sprinting starts, an imperative skill in cyclocross because every rider in front of you represents someone likely to wreck who will slow you down, so the goal is to pass everyone before the course gets technical. Because this activity required minimal skill, I actually held my own here, and it occurred to me that if the sport were nothing more than a cold start into a flat sprint, I might not be entirely awful at it.

After that, however, we practiced dismounting and running over barriers, and if the standing sprint is the best part of my portfolio and if the trail riding was equal parts possibility and pathetic, the running over barriers thing was a trainwreck. I was horrible. Absolutely horrible. On the plus side, the 2 times I fell were on grass and the other riders were both knowledgable and friendly. And by the end of the hour, I'd progressed from horrible to not very good at all.

Today, two days later, I returned to the scene of the crime. I did 4 loops of the single track, and didn't fall once. I did 10 dismounts - if not elegantly - at least without falling. In fact, it would've been a remarkable run if I didn't lay my bike sideways going around the serpentine of trees at the beginning. Damn crabapples.

And after that, I signed up for my first two races. :)

Diabetes-wise, it was a nice workout and I finished with a perfect blood sugar. One thing to consider is that I either need to fall a lot less or I might disconnect my insulin pump. As workouts are an hour and the races are 40 minutes, that wouldn't be any problem at all. That said, I'm ok with learning to fall less, too.

100 Miles, Either Way.

2013-09-23T06:30:00.002-07:00

It took me six years of pounding pavement to work up the courage and training to do a 100 mile run. Last weekend, after six weeks of mostly dedicated riding, I completed my first 100 mile ride.

That's not to say it was easy. Moreover, fitness is cumulative so all of those years of running helped build the fitness before I started riding.

And finally - and perhaps most important - the ride wasn't a race, but a "ride." No timers. No results. Heck, no t-shirt since I didn't register in advance.

As recently as two weeks ago, I wasn't sure I'd do the century ride. My training rides hadn't gotten any longer than 64 miles, and my knee continues to tweak around 45 miles (ironic, since so many runners become cyclists because of knee problems). But truth is, when I thought about the fact that I was considering not doing an event that wasn't even being timed, well, I questioned my own courage. What, in fact, did I have to lose? Absolutely nothing.

To avoid my Type-A tendencies, I made it a point NOT to show up when the main pack rolled out at 7am. Knowing I was undertrained, I knew the best way to have a good ride would be to do my own thing. I started about 20 minutes later with a bunch of other tricklers.

Throughout the first few miles, I took things very easy. I knew the difficult hills would start around the 45 mile mark, so my plan was to really be comfy until that point. I passed a bunch of other riders and was nearing a large pack of about 20, but at that point the 100km and 100mile routes split and the entire pack chose the shorter route. After only about 40 minutes, I was on my own.

My insulin and fueling strategy were nearly identical to what I would do for an ultra run; about 40g per hour with a 15% reduction in basal rates. I settled into a comfy pace and kept the pedals turning. As far as what that pace was, though, don't ask. I'm still relatively old-schooling this cycling thing. The entire ride was being recorded on my Strava app, but I don't even have a computer on my bike.

About five miles prior to the first aid station at 25 miles, I passed the first rider I'd seen since the 100km split, and he remarked that I, too, was the first he'd seen, but when I rolled into the first stop, 2 other guys were leaving. I was momentarily relieved to see I wasn't one of only two riders.

Throughout the miles, the experience was much of the same; rolling beautiful PA farmland. Me passing other cyclists and not getting passed. Despite this being a non-competitive event, those were the things I thought about, and each time I passed another rider, I considered it a small victory (in an event with no winners).

Like an ultra-run, there were awesome miles and there were not-so-awesome miles. In cycling, the differences are more dramatic, of course. Tailwinds and downhills can make a person feel quite powerful, whereas uphills can make the whole day seem a bit silly.

Around mile 60, my glycogen stores must've became depleted because very quickly I needed to increase my carbs per hour. Though I prefer solid carbs where I can keep the count in my head, I swapped my water for gatorade at the aid stations and drank it heavily for the last two hours of the ride. That ended up being a wise decision, as I was 88 at the end. (This was after not paying attention and having to slug down quite a bit when I tested at 57 around mile 70.)

The last aid station was around mile 93. Though I had adequate fuel, I still stopped just to stretch my back, which was probably what gave me the most fits throughout the ride. As I prepared to leave the aid station, another rider, who I hadn't seen all day rolled in. Taking one look at him told me all I needed to know: if I wanted to keep with my plan of not getting caught all day, I'd have to work.

I pushed the pace as much as I could throughout the last seven miles, though the wind from an expected front had now arrived, and my results definitely weren't reflected in the effort. I looked over my shoulder frequently and he was nowhere to be found. And then, with only a mile left, I checked again and there he was, and closing fast. Though I tried to push it, there was no denying it: this guy had likely started way after me and was by far a superior rider. He caught me just before the last traffic light, where we both stopped and had a nice conversation. And after that, the ride was over.

Not being a race, there were no crowds. Heck, I didn't even technically roll through the finish line (where nobody was anyway). I pulled into the parking lot and loaded up my bike, and, after some post-ride food and a massage, that was that; my first century ride in the books.

Unlike my 100 mile run, I was sore, but not "uh oh somebody better drive me" sore. Over the next few hours - not unlike some ultra events for me - my blood sugars actually ran a little high (160), likely due to the cortisone released by my body to heal itself. And now, 2 days later, I feel about 85% better.

All in all, I liked it. I liked it a lot. Clearly, given my comments about catching people and not getting caught, I'm still adjusting to the non-competitive nature of these rides. But then again, I don't even have a computer, so you could say I'm mellowing. Or maybe I'm just cheap. This cycling is an expensive hobby.

The Process of Learning

2013-08-16T10:32:00.001-07:00

Fast forward 3 weeks from the last post, in which I announced plans to do a duathlon, followed by a century ride. Since then, I've done ten rides and four runs. Because the recovery profile from riding is so different, that number surprised me when I looked it up. Honestly, it doesn't feel as if I've been training that much. Not that it's a lot... For a guy used to working out 6 out of 7 days per week, this averages out to 4. But still, the lack of joint fatigue makes it seem even less.

More than anything, I think I'm learning to become a cyclist. I've had more flats than you can imagine, mainly because I've finally committed myself to learning how to fix them and sometimes what I do comes back to bite me a few days later. In fact, two rides didn't happen because when I went to start things up, I had mechanical failures that burned up my precious lunch hour. While frustrating in some ways, I'm trying to comfort myself that I'm learning how to properly maintain my bike.

On the bike, I'm not getting much faster, yet. My best rides are barely over a 17mph average and most of them are mid 16's. Even if you take into account that I've got some in-town riding that drives things down, no one is going to confuse me with a Tour rider anytime soon.

But even so, there are areas of progress. According to my Strava segments, some days on some roads I am getting faster. And on the bike, I'm developing more handling skills every day. I found myself on a treacherous downhill last weekend and I don't think I'm lying when I say a month ago I might've wiped out on the same road.

The long rides are getting longer, too. My furthest, yet, was a 55 miler and I'm confident I can build up the distance to do the century next month. I'm enjoying the long rides, cobbling together sections of roads and towns I know by taking roads I don't.

Truth be told, for the runner I am, this is humbling. It's humbling being a guy who can offer opinions about virtually any running shoe on the market but can't get through 4 rides without blowing out a tube or breaking a tire lever or struggling to adjust a derailleur. It's humbling to be a guy who picks up an age group award at most runs and then sees his Strava cycling results be in the bottom fifth. It's humbling starting over and not knowing where the finish is. But I find myself drawn to it, right now, so I'm listening. And hopefully learning.

Diabetes-wise, my cycling profile is very similar to my running profile. I'm consuming about 40g per hour, and turning my pump down to about 85% basal rate. No doubt about, cycling jerseys are way more diabetic friendly than running shorts. And if cycling IS definitely new to me, I'm happy that being a diabetic cyclist hasn't been much different for me than being a diabetic runner.

In general, the diabetes has behaved, too. A month ago, I decided to take a break from my CGM. Being summer, getting them to stick through the heat and sweat was proving difficult for me, so I decided to go without. Low and behold, I had my A1c last week and got a 5.9, which ties the lowest I've had in 3 years. So I'm encouraged that I can take a break from the CGM and have things not go to hell in a handbasket.

I have 2 weeks to register for the duathlon, but at the moment I don't necessarily feel an intense desire to do so. Whether it's because my workouts are providing enough of a challenge or because my ego doesn't want me to, I'm not sure, but I'll figure it out in the next 2 weeks. The century ride - which is a ride, not a race - is a definite for me. I'm looking forward to it and for what comes beyond it.

A Reboot, A Reset or a Mid-Season Crisis

2013-07-25T06:01:00.000-07:00

Four months ago, I completed my first 100 mile ultra marathon. Since then - athletically speaking - I've been adrift.

Not inactive. Most weeks, I'm out there five to six days per week. Even in a particularly bad week, I'm out there four times.

But by adrift, I mean without a plan. Without a goal. I've done several small races and I've talked about doing several large races. But large races (in my world) require commitment to a plan and executing on that plan. I know people who go to big races unprepared. I've done it a few times, myself. I don't like it. I realized a while ago that there are two ways you can approach endurance sports. You can make time for them or you can find time for them. If you make time for them, the workout WILL happen. You will adjust your life and sleep around it. If you find time for them, most days you'll get the workouts in, but when the life gets in the way, oh well. For most of the past six years, I've been making time. Since March, I've been finding time.

Some of this, I know, was inevitable. You can only chase bigger goals so long and a hundred mile run is fairly big. After that, I needed to be content chasing smaller goals more aggressively (eg getting faster at 50 milers), but I haven't quite got myself psyched to do that. And, truth be told, I haven't really had the gumption to do five hour runs since then. See, that's one of the things about ultra running for me. I need to let enough time get behind me to forget how hard it is, so I'm silly enough to do it again. And I'm not there, yet.

So in light of this, I've shifted the focus. For the past two weeks, I've been on my bike a few times and running a few times. All of this is aiming toward my first duathalon in early September, followed by my first century ride 3 weeks later. Every time I've ridden before, I haven't been pleased with my results and I don't know that I'm expecting anything amazing this time. I figure one of two things will happen. Either I'll enjoy multisport and have a slate of new goals to chase or I'll miss the soul searching five hour runs that begin when the sun is sneaking up and put a new ultra on my calendar. In either case, I'll be heading in the direction of something, though, and for me, that makes all of the difference.

So About Those Carbs Or, A Stupid Experiment Or, You're Always Learning

2013-07-08T08:46:00.001-07:00

Disclaimer: What you are about to read is not a medical study, but rather a case study of one diabetic athlete. Your mileage may vary. In addition, I talk about treatments that are relatively uncommon at this time. Don't do any of this stuff without consulting people far smarter than I.

Over the past couple of years, I've become quite adept at consuming a lot of carbs on my runs. Typically speaking, 50-60g per hour, which is on the higher end of what most athletes can handle.

To accomplish this, I've kept my basal rates at 100%. The combination of insulin plus exercise has lead to outstanding diabetes control and has also helped me to accomplish many of my ultra running goals.

Despite that, I decided to mix things up a month ago.

I'd read some articles about ultra runners using low-carb diets. In doing so, the theory, goes, you program your body to burn fat rather than carbs. The potential benefits here - according to theory - are two-fold: 1. By consuming fewer carbs, you can keep your stomach from getting upset (something all ultra runners have to deal with) and 2. Because you're burning fat, you can drop some weight.

Both of these ideas appealed to me. Currently, I'm 9 lbs. heavier than where I like to compete at, despite all the miles I run and a diet that could be considered good. (Not amazing, but good.)

At Diabetes Training Camp, Dr. Matt said something I hadn't considered before - that lowering basal rates was a trigger to our body to burn more fat. So in other words, in some respects by keeping my basal rates normal, my body didn't know I was exercising (I don't know if Matt would put it that way - but that's how I took it).

So for the past month, I've made some changes. Most of them are fairly simple... simply adding more protein into my diet and ratcheting down the carbs. Not dramatically. Not Atkins like. But measurable.

And - and this is the important part - I've cut my insulin in half during exercise while cutting my carbs by 50-70%.

For the most part, the experiment has been a dismal failure.

On the plus side, adding protein to my breakfast has been a big win. I'm staying full until lunch. I'm going to keep doing that.

My weight has barely moved down. I could make the argument I appear to be carrying it a bit better, but I've never done anything with my weight for cover model purposes, so I don't really care.

My blood sugar control has been fine, too.

But when it comes to long runs and competing, my results have been horrible. I first noticed it on my long runs two weeks ago... Typically, I will do my brutal mid-summer runs around 8:40 per mile, but two weeks ago a comparable effort came in at 9:02.

And then yesterday, I entered a 30k trail race which - fortunately - allowed athletes the opportunity to drop down to 15k. I came through the 15k thirteen minutes SLOWER than I did last year, and didn't hesitate to stop. I shut things down.

In seeing the race results, some of what happened yesterday was likely the heat.. all of the results were slower than last year. But 13 minutes is a HUGE time fall, and I'm confident that while my overall fitness isn't where it was last year, a good chunk of it could be attributed to my carb strategy. Last year in this race, I consumed 60g/per hour. This year, I did 20g/hr.

My reduced insulin strategy worked, as I finished the 15k at 119mg. But still, it was a slow, plodding effort.

I've read enough articles to know that I could be going through a phase of training my body to burn fat. One could even argue that by not reducing my insulin for the past two years I've trained it NOT to burn fat and what I really need to do is be patient. But in thinking it through more and more, it doesn't seem to be the best strategy for me.

My coach and mentor Missy Foy trained me to be an athlete who used his diabetes to an advantage. Understand, I have the ability to take MORE insulin during a race and consume more carbs. It's like being able to run a car on super unleaded while non-diabetics have to run on regular. In the past month, I've learned how much of an advantage that is.

Of course, that also means I need to figure out a different way to cut those 9 lbs., which means I'm going back on Victoza.

Victoza is a drug primarily used by Type 2 diabetics. Taken by a Type 1 diabetic, it can help control but also - in this study - was shown to help the diabetic drop weight. I know this works because I used Victoza once before to cut weight before my 100 mile race. At the time, I stopped taking it because I thought - incorrectly - that the weight would stay off. I also felt that it was affecting my CGM accuracy. Since then, I've learned that staying on the Victoza is likely necessary to keep the weight off. I've also learned that my CGM shouldn't be affected, so I'm now taking it in my arm, rather than abdomen so see if that helps.

In other words, I'm going back to using diabetes to create a competitive advantage for me, rather than trying to limit the disadvantages its created for me. How that will shake out in the following weeks of training remains to be seen.

Diabetes Training Camp Review, Part 2 - About the Campers

2013-06-18T11:30:00.000-07:00

At various points throughout the staff training on Sunday prior to DTC, Dr. Matt made it a point to reinforce that most importantly, "It was all about the campers." We were there to ensure that their week was fun, memorable and/or educational. Heading into Monday, I hoped I was up to the task.

Knowing there were no workouts scheduled for Monday, I drove my son to his last day of school and knocked out a quick 5 miles before reporting to camp. After breakfast, I made my way to where the campers would check in. My task was easy: be one of a few people to take them from registration to the dorm where they'd be staying.

Before long, the campers begin to arrive from all parts of the US... Northwest, West, Southeast... ages from 18 to 81(!), occupations from students to teachers and physicians, newcomers and returnees. All seemed happy (if travel-tired) to have made it.

The previous day, we had reviewed the camper bios and I had made special notice of the ones that had indicated an interest in running that week. I had done this because I'm miserable at remembering names and figured it was more important to focus on the smaller number of runners than all 21 campers. As I walked people to their rooms, however, I found myself enjoying the conversations regardless of their chosen sport. And in fact, trying to memorize who the runners were proved to be pointless, because I ended up getting to know all of the campers extremely well. Some of the best conversations I had were with people who had no interest in taking a step.

Some of the returning campers were completely at ease and it showed. They were relaxed and happy to be on campus. The new campers and I suspect, myself, were a bit more on edge, eager to get with the program but a little unsure what that meant.

Before long, however, most of the campers were accounted for. We went to the gym for more icebreaker activities, this time involving the campers and staff. After that, it was time for dinner, and after that, for me (the only commuter that week) home. Tuesday, after all, was the real beginning of camp.

*

The 4 main days of camp had similar schedules, though nobody had the opportunity to get bored. Morning lectures gave way to morning workouts. Afternoon lectures gave way to small group and individual counseling sessions. More lectures followed in the evening. It sounds overwhelming and in a way, it was. I went home after dinner every night exhausted by the day's activities, but eager for the next one to come. For those who stayed on campus, I imagine it was only more so.

As far as the lectures went, they were all incredibly interesting to me, though Coach Rick had teased me it was only because I was diabetic. "You oughta see yourselves looking so riveted when I can barely keep my eyes open!" he'd joked, but he was right. If you wanted to learn about how to manage your diabetes better, this was the place. From insulin to activity and diet strategies, I found something in nearly every lecture to do differently in my own life, and I was someone who had felt extremely confident in my plan before I arrived at camp.

But focusing on the lectures gives short credit to what really was happening for all of us between the lectures. Every conversation between each class, every story told during a workout... each of these served to bring us all closer in a way that I suppose only camp can. People with common interests will always bond. Stick them in the same place and the bonds are stronger. Send them on a run (or a ride) and they practically become like family. And in many ways, we did.

One of the things most surprising to me was mealtimes. I don't think I'm unlike a lot of people. At a venue like this, I'd naturally bond more with some people than others and seek them out at mealtimes. But here, I simply didn't care. Put me in any seat at any table with any of the campers and I felt right at home. They had so much to share and I had so much to learn and I looked forward to all of those conversations.

As far as the running went, I did my best to introduce the campers and staff to different terrains. We enjoyed rail trail runs, gravel trail runs and one final dirt run in the County Park. As expected, each enjoyed the very different courses to very different degrees and that was kind of the point; to find your own run. Our distances varied from two miles on the very technical trails to nearly five on the rail trails. Pace and distance were always chosen by the campers and I was supported by copious numbers of staff. In fact, if cycling was the most popular camper activity, running was certainly the most popular staff activity. "No shame in that," Coach Rick told me. "It's important to keep the staff happy, too."

And, of course, the running wasn't all about the runs. Many of the campers were avid runners who had paid a lot of money to ship their bikes to camp, so they felt the need to ride as much as possible. We still discussed running, training plans, etc. Though I understood their decision, I took it as my task to speak down about the cycling as much as possible.

And remarkably, camp was making me look at other sports besides running. I had a blast boxing and survived a grueling fitness circuit. After the first professional bike fitting of my life, I even had a great time on a 27 mile ride. By the end of the week, I was more sore than I'd been in a long time and my body, so used to being a runner, rewarded my well-roundedness with even better blood sugars than ever.

In fact, on the last day of camp I went to my pump to see how well my blood sugars had been throughout the week. I keep my targets on my insulin pump between 70-170. Periodically, I'll see how much time I am out of that range as a gauge to evaluate my control over a period of time. Generally speaking, I hope to keep that figure under 10%. Knowing that I had spent the week basically either exercising or thinking about my diabetes, I expected good numbers and I wasn't disappointed. On the last day of camp, my insulin pump showed that I had been over 170 for 3.2% of the time since camp had started and under 70 .2% of the time. In terms of diabetes management, it was a strong performance, and helped me to set my next goal for yourself.

But that's a story for the next blog post.