Wow. Tomorrow I will turn 37. To say that when I was growing up, I NEVER expected to get that old, or to be where I am today, is an incredible understatement.
For so many years, I wanted to have everything come to an end, particularly me. Between depression and drug addiction, I did everything I could to cut my time here on earth short. Fortunately, God had other, incredible plans for me. Plans that I couldn't have dreamed of while I was growing up.
37. Married for ten years. Three kids. A job in the ministry. Living in Fort Lauderdale. Sober. I could go on and on, but the point is that each of these is an incredible gift from He who loves me.
I thank you for all the blessings you have given me. In Jesus name, Amen.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Uncle Chuck Forever
The night before I left, I had two different dates. One of them ended at about 4a.m. on the beach in Miami. I was flying out from the Miami airport, so I had it planned that way. I got high in the parking lot of the airport before going through the security checkpoint. This was before 9/11. I actually had a bunch of marijuana in each of my shoes. I put my shades on and walked through the airport. Once I got on the plane, I sat back with my shades on, music blasting. I watched a bunch of families getting on.
It’s Thanksgiving. Everyone is travelling. I’m looking at all of the dads carrying the car seats and the strollers. Babies crying. I just kept thinking to myself, “No way. That will never be me. I’m going to keep having nights like last night. Making out on the beach. Smoking weed. Uncle Chuck. That’s enough for me.”
That weekend in Wisconsin we had the annual Thanksgiving poker game at our house. All of my brothers friends came over each year to play. It has been going on for years. Now these guys were all bringing their wives and kids. I told them my story from the night before and just laughed. I’m glad you guys are happy and all, but no way. That stuff just isn’t for me. Thanks anyways!
It’s Thanksgiving. Everyone is travelling. I’m looking at all of the dads carrying the car seats and the strollers. Babies crying. I just kept thinking to myself, “No way. That will never be me. I’m going to keep having nights like last night. Making out on the beach. Smoking weed. Uncle Chuck. That’s enough for me.”
That weekend in Wisconsin we had the annual Thanksgiving poker game at our house. All of my brothers friends came over each year to play. It has been going on for years. Now these guys were all bringing their wives and kids. I told them my story from the night before and just laughed. I’m glad you guys are happy and all, but no way. That stuff just isn’t for me. Thanks anyways!
Meeting The Girl
Grad school was awesome. I only had a few classes each week, and they were always at night. This meant I had all day to train, and smoke. Smoke and train. I lived in my grandfathers place on my own all summer while he was in Wisconsin. When he came back down, I just packed up everything that I would need to keep me busy all day (and out of the house) knowing that he went to bed at exactly 10p.m. every night. To earn some extra money, I got a job teaching tennis at a Jewish Community Center in Boca Raton. I had taught tennis for years, so this was no problem. I would get high, put on my sunglasses and make sure everyone had fun on the tennis court. I got to use the gym and the pool for free. It worked out great.
The last part of my grad school program was an internship. I found a company that was based in Boca Raton, just ½ an hour away from where I was. They put on triathlons and running races all summer throughout the Southeast. When I went to interview for the job, it turned out the guy that owned the company, as well as the guy that I was interviewing with, were both originally from Wisconsin. Here again, the fact that I actually participated in triathlons and running races helped me a lot. I got the job right away. It turned out that I was the only guy on the crew that had ever done any racing, which made my input that much more helpful. I was also pretty quick to learn the names of the athletes, so I was usually the guy on the microphone announcing while the event went on.
On one of our stops in Siesta Key, FL, I had been given security duty a couple of days before the event. This meant I had to hang out where all of our signs and bike racks were until 2 a.m. making sure nobody ran off with our stuff. It worked out well because that meant the next day while everyone else had to keep working on set-up, I got to sleep in and hang out by the pool.
When I finally woke up, I saw a couple of girls that I had recognized from an earlier race. I introduced myself and made some small talk. It was really hot, so I asked them if they needed anything to drink from the supermarket. They both said no, but I decided to bring them back some large waters anyways. It turns out one of these girls was going to become my wife.
Her name was Angie. She had been competing in the series all summer. Her friend Rachel never raced, but joined her once in awhile. Other times her Dad was with her. We had become friends over the next couple months, but that was it.
Finally, my internship was coming to an end. On my last day in the office, I needed something to do. I decided to call a couple of the athletes and see if they had any suggestions for how we could improve the next year. I decided to give Angie a call.
When I called the number from her registration forms, I got an answering machine with her Dad’s voice on it. I decided to leave a message.
“Hi. This is Chuck from the triathlon series. I’m just calling some of our athletes to get some feedback for next year. If you get this message, feel free to give me a call at xxx-xxx-xxxx.”
About an hour before I was leaving the office, for the last time, the phone rang. It was Angie. We talked for an hour about all sorts of stuff. It was time for me to go. I said that I really enjoyed getting to talk to her. I’m heading up to Wisconsin for Thanksgiving weekend, but maybe when I get back we could get together sometime?”
“That sounds great. Give me a call when you get back.”
The last part of my grad school program was an internship. I found a company that was based in Boca Raton, just ½ an hour away from where I was. They put on triathlons and running races all summer throughout the Southeast. When I went to interview for the job, it turned out the guy that owned the company, as well as the guy that I was interviewing with, were both originally from Wisconsin. Here again, the fact that I actually participated in triathlons and running races helped me a lot. I got the job right away. It turned out that I was the only guy on the crew that had ever done any racing, which made my input that much more helpful. I was also pretty quick to learn the names of the athletes, so I was usually the guy on the microphone announcing while the event went on.
On one of our stops in Siesta Key, FL, I had been given security duty a couple of days before the event. This meant I had to hang out where all of our signs and bike racks were until 2 a.m. making sure nobody ran off with our stuff. It worked out well because that meant the next day while everyone else had to keep working on set-up, I got to sleep in and hang out by the pool.
When I finally woke up, I saw a couple of girls that I had recognized from an earlier race. I introduced myself and made some small talk. It was really hot, so I asked them if they needed anything to drink from the supermarket. They both said no, but I decided to bring them back some large waters anyways. It turns out one of these girls was going to become my wife.
Her name was Angie. She had been competing in the series all summer. Her friend Rachel never raced, but joined her once in awhile. Other times her Dad was with her. We had become friends over the next couple months, but that was it.
Finally, my internship was coming to an end. On my last day in the office, I needed something to do. I decided to call a couple of the athletes and see if they had any suggestions for how we could improve the next year. I decided to give Angie a call.
When I called the number from her registration forms, I got an answering machine with her Dad’s voice on it. I decided to leave a message.
“Hi. This is Chuck from the triathlon series. I’m just calling some of our athletes to get some feedback for next year. If you get this message, feel free to give me a call at xxx-xxx-xxxx.”
About an hour before I was leaving the office, for the last time, the phone rang. It was Angie. We talked for an hour about all sorts of stuff. It was time for me to go. I said that I really enjoyed getting to talk to her. I’m heading up to Wisconsin for Thanksgiving weekend, but maybe when I get back we could get together sometime?”
“That sounds great. Give me a call when you get back.”
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Grad School
While I was in Israel, one of my grandmothers had passed away, leaving me a small inheritance. My parents said that I could either let them keep the money to pay for the extra year I spent in Madison, or I could use it to go to grad school. I chose grad school. After having done a few races, I had decided that what I really wanted to do was to put on races. I wanted to give other people the chance to set a goal, to work hard, and to get that amazing feeling of accomplishment crossing the finish line like I had.
The most reasonable, somewhat associated, graduate school program to do that was Sports administration. There were only a few schools in the country at that time that even offered a Master’s Degree in Sports Administration. One of them happened to be in North Miami. It was close enough to Pompano Beach, where my grandfather owned a condo and spent the winters, so I decided to look into it.
In the meantime, I was working at a running specialty store in Tampa, smoking like crazy and training. I was living with Paul, but never really saw him because he was working third-shift at Kinkos. Our apartment was a sight to behold. It was named the Urban Campground by his nephews. We didn’t have any furniture. No television. No beds. We had one bowl. One knife. One fork. That was enough to cook spaghetti when we got tired of peanut butter and jelly. We did have a therma-rest inflatable chair. And most importantly, we had a cd-player. This was subsistence living at its finest. It worked out well. At least well enough.
Finally it was time for me to move to the other coast of Florida for school. Even though my grades weren’t all that great from my undergraduate degree, there was a personal interview that was part of the process. I made the drive across the state and met with the Dean of the Sports Administration program at St. Thomas University.
I was different from the typical applicant that was trying to get in the program. Just about everyone else was there because they wanted to work for a professional team, or become a part of the athletic department at a college. I didn’t even watch sports. I just wanted to participate. My focus was on putting on events for recreational athletes. After hearing about the Ironman I had done a few months earlier, they were pretty impressed. I think I really freaked them out when in between interviews, I went to my car and put on my running clothes an ran around the campus for an hour. I was interesting enough for them to sort of overlook my grades and accept me into the program.
The next session of classes wasn’t going to start until May, so I had another few months to just hang out in Tampa. With this graduate school program, I at least had a plan for the next year or two. And the idea of living in south Florida while going to grad school wasn’t all that bad. I still dealt with depression, but as long as I kept smoking, I was o.k.
The most reasonable, somewhat associated, graduate school program to do that was Sports administration. There were only a few schools in the country at that time that even offered a Master’s Degree in Sports Administration. One of them happened to be in North Miami. It was close enough to Pompano Beach, where my grandfather owned a condo and spent the winters, so I decided to look into it.
In the meantime, I was working at a running specialty store in Tampa, smoking like crazy and training. I was living with Paul, but never really saw him because he was working third-shift at Kinkos. Our apartment was a sight to behold. It was named the Urban Campground by his nephews. We didn’t have any furniture. No television. No beds. We had one bowl. One knife. One fork. That was enough to cook spaghetti when we got tired of peanut butter and jelly. We did have a therma-rest inflatable chair. And most importantly, we had a cd-player. This was subsistence living at its finest. It worked out well. At least well enough.
Finally it was time for me to move to the other coast of Florida for school. Even though my grades weren’t all that great from my undergraduate degree, there was a personal interview that was part of the process. I made the drive across the state and met with the Dean of the Sports Administration program at St. Thomas University.
I was different from the typical applicant that was trying to get in the program. Just about everyone else was there because they wanted to work for a professional team, or become a part of the athletic department at a college. I didn’t even watch sports. I just wanted to participate. My focus was on putting on events for recreational athletes. After hearing about the Ironman I had done a few months earlier, they were pretty impressed. I think I really freaked them out when in between interviews, I went to my car and put on my running clothes an ran around the campus for an hour. I was interesting enough for them to sort of overlook my grades and accept me into the program.
The next session of classes wasn’t going to start until May, so I had another few months to just hang out in Tampa. With this graduate school program, I at least had a plan for the next year or two. And the idea of living in south Florida while going to grad school wasn’t all that bad. I still dealt with depression, but as long as I kept smoking, I was o.k.
Becoming An Ironman
After my second race, I had read about an Ironman-distance event that was taking place just outside of Orlando in October. It was the same distance as the one they show on t.v. from Hawaii. 2.4 mi. swim. 112 mi. bike and a 26.2 mi. run. In order to complete the race, you just needed to make it to the next part before the cutoff times. You had to be out of the water by 2hrs and 20 min. You had to finish the bike ride by 10 hours and 30 mins. And you had to cross the finish line before 17 hours to be considered an official finisher. Seeing as how I had only been doing this for a short time, my goals were simple: FINISH.
I continued to work part-time, living at my parents place and training for this race. It was great to actually have a goal. I still had no idea what I was going to do after that as far as a career or anything. I was pretty sure I didn’t want to stick around in Wisconsin, especially once winter rolled around. But in the meantime I was having fun travelling to races on the weekends. Smoking all day long and dreaming about doing this race in Florida.
Just before it was time for me to drive down to Orlando for the race, my buddy Paul decided to move down to Tampa to live with his brother. We figured it would be a lot of fun if we made the trip down together. We had to take two cars because I was going to be heading back up to Wisconsin after the race.
The day to leave had finally come. Just as I was finishing up packing my bike and everything into the car, my mom had some last minute advice for me.
“Why in the world are you going to drive all that way if you aren’t even going to be able to finish the race?”
I didn’t respond. I just walked out and got in the car. If that wasn’t a little bit of extra motivation for me to make it across the finish line, I don’t know what is!
I still had a couple of days before the race, so I drove all the way to Tampa with Paul. We had a blast hanging out with his brother. I hit the bicycle shop and picked up some last minute things for the race. New bicycle tubes, bike shorts and some other stuff.
It was finally time for me to head to the race. I wasn’t very good about planning this thing out. After picking up my race number, I still needed to go find a hotel to stay in for the night before the race. I found a little hole-in-the-wall type of place before going to get some dinner. I was up nearly the whole night smoking and thinking about the swim. For me, the swim was the part I was the most nervous about. 2.4miles is a long way. What if I didn’t get out of the water before the cutoff? My mom would right. That would suck. How would I get myself to drive all the way back to Wisconsin and have to tell all those people that I had failed? The more I stressed about it, the more I smoked.
The next morning I drove to the start of the race and sat in my car. I kept smoking until I finally had to head over to the beach for the swim start. Just like my first race, I did whatever stroke I needed to just so I could finish. I was one of the last three people to finish the swim (out of 400!). I was out of the water in 2hrs 10mins. Just 10 minutes to spare, but I made it! I could hardly believe it! I jumped on my bike and really started to believe that I could finish this thing.
After about ten miles on the bike, I had a flat tire. This was my first flat tire in a race. Luckily I had a spare tube with me and a little hand pump. I got it changed after about 10 minutes sitting on the side of the road. You can’t really get the tire fully pumped with one of those little things, but it was going to have to work. I kept on riding. Right around the 100 mile point, I had my second flat tire. This time I didn’t have another spare tube. I was stuck on the side of the road watching the minutes, and the race slip out of my hands. It was getting close to the cutoff time. Just then one of the race support vehicles came by and gave me a new tube. I was on my way again, but still worried about the time.
I pulled into the transition area. It was 10 hours and 25 minutes since the start of the race. I had race officials yelling at me that I had to get onto the run course in the next five minutes, or I wouldn’t be allowed to continue. I barely made it.
All that was left was 26.2 miles of running and walking. I needed to do that in 6 and a ½ hours to be an official finisher. I had already done the math in my head. As long as I walked each mile in under 15 minutes, I would be o.k. That is exactly what I did. I didn’t run a single step. I walked as fast as I could. I knew that if I had started to run and burned out, that I wouldn’t be able to keep up a fast enough pace to finish. I just kept clicking off mile after mile, looking at my watch the whole time.
When all was said and done, I crossed the finish line in 16 hours and 40 minutes. I was officially an Ironman Triathlete! It was the most incredible feeling of accomplishment I had ever experienced.
I got back to my car and called my parents to tell them I had done it. They were so proud of me. They even said that they would pay for my hotel that night. I hadn’t thought far enough ahead to even get a hotel room. I didn’t really think it was going to take the whole time to finish.
It was after midnight and I was disgusting. I had just been out in the sun sweating since 7a.m. Finally the third hotel I went to had a room available…on the second floor. The next morning, walking down the steps was one of the most painful experiences of my life.
I went back to the race area to pick up my bike and my “finisher’s t-shirt.” They also had some pictures already developed from the race. A swim shot, bike shot and a finish line photo. I got in the car for the long drive back to Wisconsin. Those pictures were laid out on the passenger seat next to me the whole time.
The first day I didn’t drive very far. I ended up spending the night at a campground in another part of Florida. I woke up the next morning in my tent wearing just my boxer shorts. By the end of the night I was in Chicago filling my car with gas and freezing my butt off. I called Paul and told him that if he hasn’t found a place to live yet, “make it a two-bedroom and I’ll be there next week.”
Once I got home, I let my parents know that I was moving to Tampa. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was going to do there, but I knew I wanted to keep training for triathlons, and that I hated the cold weather.
I continued to work part-time, living at my parents place and training for this race. It was great to actually have a goal. I still had no idea what I was going to do after that as far as a career or anything. I was pretty sure I didn’t want to stick around in Wisconsin, especially once winter rolled around. But in the meantime I was having fun travelling to races on the weekends. Smoking all day long and dreaming about doing this race in Florida.
Just before it was time for me to drive down to Orlando for the race, my buddy Paul decided to move down to Tampa to live with his brother. We figured it would be a lot of fun if we made the trip down together. We had to take two cars because I was going to be heading back up to Wisconsin after the race.
The day to leave had finally come. Just as I was finishing up packing my bike and everything into the car, my mom had some last minute advice for me.
“Why in the world are you going to drive all that way if you aren’t even going to be able to finish the race?”
I didn’t respond. I just walked out and got in the car. If that wasn’t a little bit of extra motivation for me to make it across the finish line, I don’t know what is!
I still had a couple of days before the race, so I drove all the way to Tampa with Paul. We had a blast hanging out with his brother. I hit the bicycle shop and picked up some last minute things for the race. New bicycle tubes, bike shorts and some other stuff.
It was finally time for me to head to the race. I wasn’t very good about planning this thing out. After picking up my race number, I still needed to go find a hotel to stay in for the night before the race. I found a little hole-in-the-wall type of place before going to get some dinner. I was up nearly the whole night smoking and thinking about the swim. For me, the swim was the part I was the most nervous about. 2.4miles is a long way. What if I didn’t get out of the water before the cutoff? My mom would right. That would suck. How would I get myself to drive all the way back to Wisconsin and have to tell all those people that I had failed? The more I stressed about it, the more I smoked.
The next morning I drove to the start of the race and sat in my car. I kept smoking until I finally had to head over to the beach for the swim start. Just like my first race, I did whatever stroke I needed to just so I could finish. I was one of the last three people to finish the swim (out of 400!). I was out of the water in 2hrs 10mins. Just 10 minutes to spare, but I made it! I could hardly believe it! I jumped on my bike and really started to believe that I could finish this thing.
After about ten miles on the bike, I had a flat tire. This was my first flat tire in a race. Luckily I had a spare tube with me and a little hand pump. I got it changed after about 10 minutes sitting on the side of the road. You can’t really get the tire fully pumped with one of those little things, but it was going to have to work. I kept on riding. Right around the 100 mile point, I had my second flat tire. This time I didn’t have another spare tube. I was stuck on the side of the road watching the minutes, and the race slip out of my hands. It was getting close to the cutoff time. Just then one of the race support vehicles came by and gave me a new tube. I was on my way again, but still worried about the time.
I pulled into the transition area. It was 10 hours and 25 minutes since the start of the race. I had race officials yelling at me that I had to get onto the run course in the next five minutes, or I wouldn’t be allowed to continue. I barely made it.
All that was left was 26.2 miles of running and walking. I needed to do that in 6 and a ½ hours to be an official finisher. I had already done the math in my head. As long as I walked each mile in under 15 minutes, I would be o.k. That is exactly what I did. I didn’t run a single step. I walked as fast as I could. I knew that if I had started to run and burned out, that I wouldn’t be able to keep up a fast enough pace to finish. I just kept clicking off mile after mile, looking at my watch the whole time.
When all was said and done, I crossed the finish line in 16 hours and 40 minutes. I was officially an Ironman Triathlete! It was the most incredible feeling of accomplishment I had ever experienced.
I got back to my car and called my parents to tell them I had done it. They were so proud of me. They even said that they would pay for my hotel that night. I hadn’t thought far enough ahead to even get a hotel room. I didn’t really think it was going to take the whole time to finish.
It was after midnight and I was disgusting. I had just been out in the sun sweating since 7a.m. Finally the third hotel I went to had a room available…on the second floor. The next morning, walking down the steps was one of the most painful experiences of my life.
I went back to the race area to pick up my bike and my “finisher’s t-shirt.” They also had some pictures already developed from the race. A swim shot, bike shot and a finish line photo. I got in the car for the long drive back to Wisconsin. Those pictures were laid out on the passenger seat next to me the whole time.
The first day I didn’t drive very far. I ended up spending the night at a campground in another part of Florida. I woke up the next morning in my tent wearing just my boxer shorts. By the end of the night I was in Chicago filling my car with gas and freezing my butt off. I called Paul and told him that if he hasn’t found a place to live yet, “make it a two-bedroom and I’ll be there next week.”
Once I got home, I let my parents know that I was moving to Tampa. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was going to do there, but I knew I wanted to keep training for triathlons, and that I hated the cold weather.
Running Towards the Sun
On the flight back to the States, a group of guys got on the plane. On the back of their jackets it read Israel Triathlon Team. It really got me thinking. I had been a pretty good athlete my entire life. I played competitive tennis, baseball. I was a good swimmer. Always one of the fastest kids, although I never raced anything longer than 50 yards.
I had heard of triathlons the same way most people did. The Ironman triathlon in Hawaii. It was on t.v. each year from the time I was 10 years old. I remember watching it with my dad once and thinking what kind of fools would swim a couple miles in the ocean, ride their bikes over a hundred miles, and then run a full 26.2 mile marathon? Nobody would do that. That’s just crazy.
After seeing these guys, I kept thinking about it though. I had done some mountain biking when I lived in Colorado after graduating from Wisconsin. I always had fun getting high and spending a few hours out there on my bike.
I had started running while I was in Israel. It was a great way for me to get away from everyone. I would smoke some weed, put on my sunglasses and head out for awhile.
When we got back to Wisconsin, I headed to the local bookstore to see if there were any books or magazines on triathlons. I got the last copy of Finding the Wheels Hub by Scott Tinley. I picked up a couple triathlon magazines too. It was the perfect book. It wasn’t all about the science of training, or proper nutrition. It was really about the psychology of doing triathlons. I read the book over and over.
A couple of weeks after I got back, I went to visit my friend Paul in Madison. I had picked up one of the local sports magazines and found out that there was going to be a triathlon in town over the weekend. It was an Olympic Distance Triathlon which is roughly a one mile swim, followed by a 25 mile bike ride and a 6 mile run. I hadn’t swum in years. I knew that I could ride a bike that far, and my running was good enough that I could survive for 6 miles.
I ended up borrowing a bike from another friend for the race. The start of the race was walking distance from my friends apartment. It was July, so the weather in Madison was perfect. When I got to the start area, I was the only one there without a wetsuit. I didn’t have goggles either. The water was freezing. After a few seconds, I realized that my arms weren’t ready to swim a mile doing the freestyle. I ended up doing the breaststroke. Some side-stroke. Even a little backstroke just to get around the course. I was the absolute last person to come in from the water. When I got to the transition area, I sat down in the Sun for a second just to warm up. I put on a t-shirt and my running shoes and jumped on my bike. I passed a few people over the 25 miles. When we got back, I headed out for the run. I made it through the whole thing in just over 3 hours.
The feeling of accomplishment was something I hadn’t felt in years. It was incredible. I was hooked. I went back to my buddies apartment and smoked up again, even though the natural high was pretty good on it’s own. I was now officially a triathlete!
After that race I headed back to Milwaukee where I was staying with my parents while figuring out what to do with my life. I was working at my cousin’s shoe store part-time during the week and training for another race whenever I had a chance. I usually spent the weekends partying in Madison. On one trip another friend of mine told me his brother had bought a triathlon bike but decided he wasn’t going to race anymore. I could have it for $500. He’d even throw in a helmet and a wetsuit. Best of all, I didn’t have to pay him for it right away. Too good of a deal to pass up.
I finished my second triathlon a couple of weeks later, using my new bike and wetsuit. I was still smoking up all of the time. It was fun to get high and go for a run or a bike ride with my headphones on. It kept me from being depressed. It was keeping me alive.
I soon realized that the longer the race, the more time I could spend training. It was a great excuse to stay out of the house. It was a way for me to stay high, without having to deal with anybody. I would smoke. Ride my bike. Stop along the way to smoke some more and keep on riding.
I had heard of triathlons the same way most people did. The Ironman triathlon in Hawaii. It was on t.v. each year from the time I was 10 years old. I remember watching it with my dad once and thinking what kind of fools would swim a couple miles in the ocean, ride their bikes over a hundred miles, and then run a full 26.2 mile marathon? Nobody would do that. That’s just crazy.
After seeing these guys, I kept thinking about it though. I had done some mountain biking when I lived in Colorado after graduating from Wisconsin. I always had fun getting high and spending a few hours out there on my bike.
I had started running while I was in Israel. It was a great way for me to get away from everyone. I would smoke some weed, put on my sunglasses and head out for awhile.
When we got back to Wisconsin, I headed to the local bookstore to see if there were any books or magazines on triathlons. I got the last copy of Finding the Wheels Hub by Scott Tinley. I picked up a couple triathlon magazines too. It was the perfect book. It wasn’t all about the science of training, or proper nutrition. It was really about the psychology of doing triathlons. I read the book over and over.
A couple of weeks after I got back, I went to visit my friend Paul in Madison. I had picked up one of the local sports magazines and found out that there was going to be a triathlon in town over the weekend. It was an Olympic Distance Triathlon which is roughly a one mile swim, followed by a 25 mile bike ride and a 6 mile run. I hadn’t swum in years. I knew that I could ride a bike that far, and my running was good enough that I could survive for 6 miles.
I ended up borrowing a bike from another friend for the race. The start of the race was walking distance from my friends apartment. It was July, so the weather in Madison was perfect. When I got to the start area, I was the only one there without a wetsuit. I didn’t have goggles either. The water was freezing. After a few seconds, I realized that my arms weren’t ready to swim a mile doing the freestyle. I ended up doing the breaststroke. Some side-stroke. Even a little backstroke just to get around the course. I was the absolute last person to come in from the water. When I got to the transition area, I sat down in the Sun for a second just to warm up. I put on a t-shirt and my running shoes and jumped on my bike. I passed a few people over the 25 miles. When we got back, I headed out for the run. I made it through the whole thing in just over 3 hours.
The feeling of accomplishment was something I hadn’t felt in years. It was incredible. I was hooked. I went back to my buddies apartment and smoked up again, even though the natural high was pretty good on it’s own. I was now officially a triathlete!
After that race I headed back to Milwaukee where I was staying with my parents while figuring out what to do with my life. I was working at my cousin’s shoe store part-time during the week and training for another race whenever I had a chance. I usually spent the weekends partying in Madison. On one trip another friend of mine told me his brother had bought a triathlon bike but decided he wasn’t going to race anymore. I could have it for $500. He’d even throw in a helmet and a wetsuit. Best of all, I didn’t have to pay him for it right away. Too good of a deal to pass up.
I finished my second triathlon a couple of weeks later, using my new bike and wetsuit. I was still smoking up all of the time. It was fun to get high and go for a run or a bike ride with my headphones on. It kept me from being depressed. It was keeping me alive.
I soon realized that the longer the race, the more time I could spend training. It was a great excuse to stay out of the house. It was a way for me to stay high, without having to deal with anybody. I would smoke. Ride my bike. Stop along the way to smoke some more and keep on riding.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Why Didn't God Just Let Me Die?
May 8, 1996
I've been in Israel for the past few months. It was all part of a community service project sponsored by a Rabbi back in Wisconsin. We help fix schools, paint buildings, that sort of thing. We also get to spend a lot of time hiking.
We had been hiking across Israel for the last two days. This was the last hike before the program was going to end. I still didn't have a clue what I was going to do when it was over. I had an offer to go work for an archaelogical dig company owned by some other people from the States, but was starting to miss the freedoms of living in the U.S. Driving my car. Mountain biking. Playing golf. I just didn't know what I wanted to do.
The trail was pretty easy to follow until we got to this one section on the side of a mountain where the path got a little narrow. I was the second person to get to this point. There was a small gap that we needed to cross over. I saw a rock over head that I figured I could grab onto. I could hold my weight on that as I swung my legs across. I grabbed the rock, but as soon as I put my weight onto it, it came off in my hand. I started to fall straight back, rolling down the mountain.
“This is it,” I thought to myself. “It’s finally over. I get to die, and nobody can get mad at me. It was just an accident. That's what they will tell my family. Just an accident."
After falling about fifteen feet down the mountain, my feet got caught in some rocks and I stopped moving. Another fifteen feet, and it all would have been over. All of the pain. The depression. The addiction. All of it would have stopped right then and there.
“You didn’t scream,” somebody said. “How could you not scream?”
“You are so lucky to be alive,” another one in the group remarked.
That was the last thing that I was feeling. I had my head in my hands and started to cry. Not out of gratitude, or happiness, but out of anger.
How could God do this to me? Why couldn’t I have just kept falling? This was my out! Why didn’t he just let me die?
I had been raised as a Conservative Jew. We went to temple on the really important Jewish Holidays. To me it was really just a social religion. My brother and I were in the Jewish youth groups. My parent's friends were all Jewish. But it wasn’t about having a relationship with God. When we did go to services, it was just 300 people all sitting around listening to one guy speaking Hebrew for three hours, without having a clue what he was saying to us. Our parents told us that we were only allowed to date Jewish girls (which meant that I didn’t date a whole lot).
I had been depressed for such a long time. From the time I was in third grade, I didn’t want to live. I also didn’t want to hurt my family, so I just suffered through the pain. Once I got into college, I started using drugs to help dull the pain. Then when we had gone to Israel as a family, I felt a sense of belonging. I thought maybe this was a place that could give me the desire to want to live. Maybe even let myself fall in love. So I found a way to get back there. This community service project was my way back.
Once we got down from the mountain, I knew that it was time for me to leave Israel. I had been looking for answers. Instead that fall made me realize that I still wanted to die. If I wasn’t going to find the answers here, I might as well head back home. At least there I could go for bike rides, play golf and have a bit of fun with my friends. It was also a lot easier to find the drugs that I needed to keep numb enough to the pain so that I could make it through another day.
I've been in Israel for the past few months. It was all part of a community service project sponsored by a Rabbi back in Wisconsin. We help fix schools, paint buildings, that sort of thing. We also get to spend a lot of time hiking.
We had been hiking across Israel for the last two days. This was the last hike before the program was going to end. I still didn't have a clue what I was going to do when it was over. I had an offer to go work for an archaelogical dig company owned by some other people from the States, but was starting to miss the freedoms of living in the U.S. Driving my car. Mountain biking. Playing golf. I just didn't know what I wanted to do.
The trail was pretty easy to follow until we got to this one section on the side of a mountain where the path got a little narrow. I was the second person to get to this point. There was a small gap that we needed to cross over. I saw a rock over head that I figured I could grab onto. I could hold my weight on that as I swung my legs across. I grabbed the rock, but as soon as I put my weight onto it, it came off in my hand. I started to fall straight back, rolling down the mountain.
“This is it,” I thought to myself. “It’s finally over. I get to die, and nobody can get mad at me. It was just an accident. That's what they will tell my family. Just an accident."
After falling about fifteen feet down the mountain, my feet got caught in some rocks and I stopped moving. Another fifteen feet, and it all would have been over. All of the pain. The depression. The addiction. All of it would have stopped right then and there.
“You didn’t scream,” somebody said. “How could you not scream?”
“You are so lucky to be alive,” another one in the group remarked.
That was the last thing that I was feeling. I had my head in my hands and started to cry. Not out of gratitude, or happiness, but out of anger.
How could God do this to me? Why couldn’t I have just kept falling? This was my out! Why didn’t he just let me die?
I had been raised as a Conservative Jew. We went to temple on the really important Jewish Holidays. To me it was really just a social religion. My brother and I were in the Jewish youth groups. My parent's friends were all Jewish. But it wasn’t about having a relationship with God. When we did go to services, it was just 300 people all sitting around listening to one guy speaking Hebrew for three hours, without having a clue what he was saying to us. Our parents told us that we were only allowed to date Jewish girls (which meant that I didn’t date a whole lot).
I had been depressed for such a long time. From the time I was in third grade, I didn’t want to live. I also didn’t want to hurt my family, so I just suffered through the pain. Once I got into college, I started using drugs to help dull the pain. Then when we had gone to Israel as a family, I felt a sense of belonging. I thought maybe this was a place that could give me the desire to want to live. Maybe even let myself fall in love. So I found a way to get back there. This community service project was my way back.
Once we got down from the mountain, I knew that it was time for me to leave Israel. I had been looking for answers. Instead that fall made me realize that I still wanted to die. If I wasn’t going to find the answers here, I might as well head back home. At least there I could go for bike rides, play golf and have a bit of fun with my friends. It was also a lot easier to find the drugs that I needed to keep numb enough to the pain so that I could make it through another day.
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