Small Slice of Fingers

I have learned to always be careful when packing your wife’s suitcase. As we were getting ready to leave California last Friday night I was packing up all the suitcases. Em had a plastic bag with her shampoo and conditioner that wouldn’t fit in the pocket. I proceeded to shove the bag as hard as I could deep into the pocket.

Unfortunately, she had also left her razor in the bag. Well, seeing as how the razor is extremely sharp and mostly clean, I my pain receptors were not registering with my brain that the flesh of my ring finger was getting torn away. Not until the razor hit so deep into my finger did I realize that something wasn’t quite right. It initially felt like a needle was puncturing my finger. I pulled my hand away and saw blood.

I ran to the sink and the blood was flowing. It wouldn’t stop and it stung when I stuck it under the water. It was hard to see how deep it was because of the blood. My brother stuck and band-aid on it and before we were able to leave the entire bandage was saturated with blood. I stuck another bandage on and we took off to the Primm.

The pressure of the bandage had helped cease some of the bleeding but as soon as I removed the bandage the blood flowed again. over the next day each time I would use my finger when grabbing something I could feel the wound open up. Finally I decided to super-glue the wound closed. It has worked great. I guess I’ll have to see what happens when the glue wears off. It could take quite a long time for this to heal.

Aw nuts! That hurt!

How my vasectomy was like an Ironman

I always need to warn potential readers that my posts are probably completely inappropriate, but you clicked on it.

I am going to jump right into this, starting at the pre-consult. I was sitting in the office and the doctor walked in. “So, we’ll bring you in, put you in the stirrups, and then I’ll begin to shave you,” said the doctor.
Wow, that is something I would have never thought I would ever hear. And I get to pay for that? That is where the comparison to Ironman begins…”and you pay for that?” The second most popular question I had while training for the Ironman after “how far is it?,” was “and you pay for that?” Until now I didn’t quite understand why people would ask me that, and now I get it. Why would someone pay for that uncomfortable and painful experience?

A few days later I was on my way to the actual procedure with some queeziness in my stomach. I turned to Emily and told her that I felt the exact same way as I did when I slowly walked towards the swim start of Ironman St. George seven months earlier. Thoughts of what am I doing, this is going to hurt, is it really worth it, this is stupid, it is going to be torture, my body will be mutilated…and it is all voluntary. Every thought can be said for either event…an Ironman or a vasectomy.

While sitting in the waiting room I sat nervous as I was about to start my big endeavor. I turned to Emily and asked if she wanted to run away with me, avoid it all together. She smiled just as she had when she dropped me off in St. George to head to the lake for my swim.

After a few minutes the nurse called my name and I headed back into the procedure rooms. My stomach was turning. The nurse gestured toward the restroom and asked me if I needed to go one last time. Any of us who have done a triathlon and marathons know what it is like to go to the bathroom one last time before the gun goes off. Luckily there was no line for this bathroom and it wasn’t a port-a-potty…if it had been I might have stayed in there for a good long while.

I went into the procedure room and was told to get ready. The nurse left as I dressed down to my shirt and socks. I sat on the table, covered myself with a giant paper towel and waited. In all reality I was still covering more skin than many of the triathlon shirts and shorts that are out there.

I was still thinking about running away. I bet I could get dressed and bail before the doctor makes his way in…but what if he opens the door just as I am heading out, that would be so embarrasing…I’m stuck now. Just like with the Ironman, while treading water at the start line, I thought about turning around and stopping the entire thing before it ever began. But I knew I was already at the start line and there was no quitting now…oh crud…the gun just went off…i’m in it now, and I started swimming. In the doctor’s office, all of a sudden, I heard a knock at the door, it opened and it was go time.

From this point forward it really had nothing to do with an Ironman, except that it was what the Doc and I talked about the entire time while he was operating down there.

Friends of mine had said they were given a Valium before their procedure to calm their nerves. I was not given the option, and when the Doc took the needle to inject some numbing stuff it was quite painful. And then there was the constant feeling of a kick to the nuts as he worked down there.

I think I’ll stop here and spare the details, but he did show me the pieces of the Vas that he cut out. For a split second I thought about asking to take a picture…but my gut told me not to, and believe me the pain in my gut was ruling any decisions at the moment.

I have spent the rest of the weekend in bed with ice packs. I’m still not feeling that great when I get up and move around. I think I’ll probably take a day off of work and make sure everything is good to go, so people don’t see me walking around so gingerly, as I was after Ironman.

Take this…and like it!!!

Someone recently asked why I haven’t been blogging lately. Well, I have to be in the mood. “Why aren’t you in the mood,” one may ask. Well, I’m not in the mood to blog about it.

Ultimately if I was blogging, you would end up getting something like the following…
(A weak attempt at time-lapse of a scab healing after a bike accident during the Tour de Donut.)

…and no one wants that.

70.3 for the fourth time

Tomorrow morning I will be venturing out on my fourth Half-Ironman Triathlon. For those who aren’t familiar with the distance, it is 1.2 mile swim, 56 mile bike and 13.1 mile run. I am sure many of you think that this would be a piece of cake after completing Ironman St. George…and I have been thinking the same thing, which is why I have done little to no training. unfortunately with less than 12 hours until the start, I have come to a bad realization that I am completely out of shape. I have gained 25 pounds since May…I know that I was way too light then, but seriously?…25 pounds? Pathetic!

I have been struggling big time and maybe, just maybe, this event tomorrow will kick me out of my funk. With my kids starting back in school I should have some more time to write, so look for a future post about my Post-PartIM depression.

My goal for tomorrow is not to suffer a DNF…hopefully I can finish under 6 hours, but it looks quite windy out there. The past two years there have been hail storms during the race, will we go 3 for 3?

My pain in the … Hip

It’s been one week since my crash and what a pain, literally. My hip is still hurting and is very sore. (If details gross you out, stop reading now).

It seems like I have scabs on top of scabs, but now they are falling off as they get snagged on my clothes. It doesn’t feel good when that happens and I can’t do anything when I first feel it, except keep moving and let it rip. Then the juicy fluids that exist under great scabs and wounds starts seeping.
The most painful part of it is that the scabs try to keep everything rigid and in place, but the skin underneath is trying to stretch. The pain is quite brutal.

My knee suffers some of the same issues but it is not as juicy. Every time I get up to walk the skin tries to stretch and the scabs scream back “not so fast.”. After 3-4 steps it gives in and then starts feeling better, but do you realize how many times you get up everyday and start walking.

Some bruises started appearing a few days later on my thighs. I’m supposed to run a half marathon next weekend. It should be interesting. The scar tissue is deep.

Blood and Vomit

This morning was my second Tour de Donut. Last year was quite the experience as I crashed at the start line while only moving 3 mph and at the finish of the race I ended with a bloodied up knee, flat tire, 6 eaten donuts and vomit to top it off. I ended up in 9th place.

This year I expected to do a whole lot better seeing as I didn’t expect to crash or have to change a flat. I also expected to eat more donuts which subtracts 3 minutes off your total time for each pastry eaten.

I arrived at the event in plenty of time to check in and get my bike ready. I didn’t eat any breakfast seeing as I was going to be stuffing my face with donuts soon enough. The race consists of three laps of 7 miles. Between each lap, you stop and try to eat as many donuts as you can.

I'm in the middle with the yellowish multi-colored jersey

As the gun time neared I ventured toward the start line. I wanted to be near the front because the event is part serious, and part fun ride…which means there are lots of kids and families. I didn’t want to be running any of them over.

The race started and within 200 yards I found myself in the lead. I was dodging all the potholes that were littered across all the roads. The race organizers had marked them all with flourescent green paint, but at some points there were so many the entire road looked green. About a mile into the race I was still in the lead and was pulling another guy. My heart-rate was a little high so I decided to slow up a bit and wait for some more riders whom I was sure were going to catch us. Sure enough some guys caught up and I was able to draft behind a couple of them. More guys arrived towards the lead and the pace started to get frantic. A rider came flying up and I heard someone yell, “Let him take the pace.” Just as he came flying by, he angrily swerved over to the left of the road and unleashed a litany of words I can’t type in this post. His rear wheel was flat.

Two other riders came up and I noticed that it was the Fat Cyclist and one of his buddies. They decided to break away so I took off with them. Within a few minutes we were far ahead of the entire field. I was struggling a little bit to stay on their wheels around the corners. After each turn I would have to push hard to catch back up. We were staying around 23-25 mph and although we were only 4 miles in, I was excited at the prospect of being one of the first three riders headed into the first pit stop to stuff my face with donuts.

We were on a straightaway heading through a neighborhood and I was sitting on their wheels trying to recover a little…and then everything changed. Although all the potholes were marked, there was a small bump in the middle of the road where the asphalt dipped down and back up. It is hardly noticeable in a car and people walking wouldn’t notice it either…but on a bike, going 23 mph, it can be a disaster.

My front wheel took the momentum and popped up into the air. The force threw my left hand off the handle bars and I tried to keep the wheel straight with my right hand. I knew I was in trouble as within a micro-second the wheel had served left and then hard right. I was going over. In slow motion my body was careening over my bike and I was looking at the Fat Cyclist and his buddy fly off into the distance. “There goes my top three…and this is going to hurt,” I thought. Then I hit the asphalt moving from 23 mph to zero. Within a few seconds I had skidded to a stop, my shoes had come out of the pedals and my bike was laying a few feet away from me. Some guy who was doing yard work in front of one of the houses screamed out, “Are you OK?”

My seat

I scrambled to my feet and besides the burning sensation across the entire left side of my body, I didn’t think I was in too bad of shape. I told the guy I was fine and started to check out my bike to see what kind of damage was done. It wasn’t until this point that the rest of the field had caught up. I was amazed that us first three riders were that far ahead. None of these guys had any clue what had happened to me. They probably assumed I just had some mechanical problems with my bike. I noticed that my seat had been ripped along with my handle bar, but other than the chain coming off, it looked safe enough to ride. I jumped back on my bike and labored the rest of the 2 miles toward the first donut eating station.

My hip

I pulled in and it seemed like there were a few dozen people who had passed me. I arrived at one of the tables full of donuts and immediately smashed two together, and took a large bite. While trying to chew and gulp the large glazed donuts I looked towards my left side. Blood was streaming down my leg and my knee looked pretty bashed up. I also noticed my sock was bloody by my ankle. The side of my thigh towards my hip stung a lot, and my cycling shorts were a little shredded. I knew there was some good road rash under there but didn’t want to look at it at that moment. My shoulder felt a little sore as well.

I finished the first two donuts and smashed another two together. My leg was starting to stiffen up. The donuts felt sickening going down so after three and four I decided to eat one more. After five, I jumped back on my bike and headed out for the second loop.

As you start the second loop there are a ton of people to be passed. Most people typically eat 1-2 donuts and many don’t eat any…so while I was stuffing my face they kept going. There is a lot of swerving around people which can be fun when there isn’t potholes to be dodged as well. Towards the last 1-2 miles of lap 2 I caught a group of decent riders. One guy had a Kona Ironman Jersey on. I told him that it was awesome and he quickly responded back that he had never done a triathlon, but just liked the jersey. I told him I wasn’t as impressed…we laughed and then he rode behind me for the rest of lap 2. By the time we were entering donut eating station 2 there was a small handful of people that I was pulling in. They all thanked me as I stopped for more donuts.

I again grabbed 2 and smashed them together. At this time it was hot, my heart rate had been going too high for around 40 minutes and my raod rash was starting to burn. I poured some water over the wounds and that stung even more. I finished donuts 6-7 and decided one more was all I could do. I finished number 8 and headed out for the final lap.

My knee

The last lap was fun because I was able to jump on with a group of riders from infinite cycles. As I headed towards the finish my leg was starting to hurt, even more than the loads of glazed goodness sitting in my belly. I headed to a medical tent and the guy proceeded to scrape the asphalt out of the wounds on my knee. As I pulled down my shorts to look at the wound a couple people started to gather around. They were in awe of the wounds that you can get during a “fun” ride. People should quit taking these things so serious.

My hip 2 days after

I ended up taking 6th place out of 72 riders in my division. My total time was 1:03:45, but the adjusted time with the 8 donuts eaten was 39:45. This years vomit was limited to a few chunks and I look forward to crashing again next year. Maybe my wounds will be healed by then.

Boom goes the dynamite

What’s the difference between a fire-cracker and a firework? I found out last night when Emily leaped out of her chair and spilled her drink all over herself.

Yesterday was my company’s 71st anniversary and we throw a big party. We have a DJ, a dunking booth and a giant BBQ. Those who actually showed up on the Friday of a 3-day weekend had a blast. The only downside was that my volleyball team didn’t repeat as company champions. After breezing our way through the tournament during the last month, my team only had three players during the championship game and we just couldn’t cover the entire court.

During the celebration there were a number of games. I was first to recognize the Fairly Odd-Parents theme song so I got a bag of Twizzlers. Then when it came down to name the college fight song,  (I am almost embarrassed to admit this) I knew them all…Notre Dame, USC, and Texas; so I got some Twix and Milky Way bars. There was also a raffle where everyone received one free raffle ticket. I was moderately excited when I won some fireworks. I have never been a big firework person because I hate spending so much money on those things, but I gladly accepted the box.

In Utah, the fireworks that shoot up into the air and explode have always been illegal…until this year. I guess our government was tired of everyone going to Wyoming and spending their money over there and still bringing them across the border. Anyways, I cam home with my box and I couldn’t quite figure it out. It said there was 12 shots that would shoot flaming balls and reports. I’m still not sure what reports are, but they must be awesome. There was only one fuse on the outside of the box so I figured it wasn’t a box with a bunch of fireworks…but instead you would light it and then it would shoot all 12 flaming balls and reports. I assumed that it would shoot up sparks from the box…boy was I wrong.

After the Vader-Romeril first annual* talent show in the afternoon, at around 9:45 at night about four families from our circle gathered to watch what was sure to be a boring fire-cracker display. I lit the fuse and took off running, settled into my chair next to Emily, and then immediately coiled back as a deafening boom and explosion shot from the box. Then a loud explosion of fireballs spread across the sky, lighting up our entire circle. Emily lept out of her chair and found herself drenched from the water that she had been holding. Children threw their hands to their ears and others began to cry. My neighbor said it was the perfect Clark Griswold moment, and I knew there were still 11 more on their way.

By the time the last explosion started to dim away with flaming pieces of cardboard falling to the ground, there was a stunned silence and then a collective “That was awesome!” I thought “If these type of fireworks are now legal, someone is going to die.” Within moments other neighbors were hitting the streets trying to figure out what was going on…and those of us who knew, were starting a collection so that we can buy a whole lot more. Happy Fourth of July.

* When I said “first annual” it was to annoy a good friend of mine because there can be no such thing as a first annual. Something can’t be annual until the second year…until then it must remain the inaugural.