My Six-Fingered Man

I just finished reading The Princess Bride by William Goldman. I've seen the movie about a dozen times -- though not as many times as my wife, who can proudly quote just about anything in the film: Cliffs of Insanity, Miracle Max, Battle of Wits, you name it. I'd meant to actually see the words on paper for years, but never quite got around to it until now -- which, as Vizzini (played in the film by the incomparable Wallace Shawn) would say, is "inconceivable!"

After I finished up, I went for a bike ride, Goldman's wonderful characters and hilarious asides still fresh in my mind. As I got warmed up and felt my legs settle into a rhythm, I kept hearing the voice of Mandy Patinkin as the vengeance-seeking Inigo Montoya, facing down the six-fingered man who took his father's life. "Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die. HELLO, my name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die. HELLO! My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die."

I ride my bike for a lot of reasons. It's fun. It gives me an excuse to take things apart and put them back together. It gets me to work or to the store. It lets me live out fantasies of being faster or stronger than I really am. It reminds me of being a kid. But the one I don't face up to often is my very own six-fingered man. My father had his first heart attack at age 44 when I was a teenager. He survived. His second came at age 50, when I was in college. He survived again, though not by much. And his final heart attack struck at age 54, when I was just 28 years old. That one ended his life.

You don't get to duel with heart disease. You don't get a climactic battle scene in a castle, your sword flashing, blood pouring from your wounds, your enemy vanquished. All you get is another day marked off the calendar, another day healthy, another day survived, an endless series of scratches tick-marked in the enemy's flesh. But when I'm out riding, feeling the strength of my own heart banging against my ribs, I feel like I'm winning. I can look my enemy in the face and see the fear in his eyes.

Hello. My name is Jason Nunemaker. You killed my father. Prepare to die.

The Obvious Answer

I broke my leg in a crash last year. Freak accident, patch of mud on an otherwise clear paved trail, wheels gone sideways, bad landing, and crack. Split my femur like a wishbone in what's called a "spiral fracture."

For the curious, no bikes were harmed in the making of this anecdote. Bent derailleur hanger, a little paint loss, and a missing frame pump. And the rider recovered, in a grisly tale of titanium implants, staples, crutches, and Vicodin that I will -- thankfully -- spare you.

But what I find telling, even a year after that crash, is the reaction of other people when they hear about it. Bikers and non-bikers alike will -- without fail -- ask the same question first:

"Do you still ride?"

I can take it in stride now. I expect it. But it threw me the first few times, and the repetition of it -- the sheer critical mass of that one question -- continues to throw me, especially when I keep hearing it from people who call themselves cyclists. I'll admit, there were dark moments during my recovery where I thought I would never get a leg over an upright bike again. Yet even in those dark moments, my mind turned to recumbent trikes. There was no question that I would ride something. The question was simply what I would be able to ride.

It's funny. Most of the people I know -- myself included -- have been in some form of car accident, from a paint-scraping fender-bender to a full-on, airbag-popping rollover. Some have been injured. Some have been seriously injured. Yet no one asks, "So, you giving up driving?" We accept (or more accurately, deny) a given level of risk in our most common transportation choice. Ironically, it's the statistical anomaly, the freak accident, that makes the safer, saner choice seem extreme.

Sure, I'll give up riding someday. The grisly recovery taught me that I'm stuck in a mortal, fallible sack of skin. This body won't be able to make the pedals go around forever. But to just walk away, 35 years old, perfectly functional (and ever-so-slightly bionic), for one bad day, one moment of inattentiveness, when I've seen that the number of riding days on my calendar is finite? Hardly.

Do I still ride? Ask me if I still breathe instead.

Pain is temporary...

...but so is pleasure.

Ever since I heard the LA quote, "Pain is temporary. Quitting lasts forever." it has been the mantra that gets me to dig deep and push through my athletic goals. It reminds me how relative time really is, and how as much as I think I'm hurting at any given moment, I'll soon be looking back on it from the other side, and wondering, "Could I have gone harder/faster/farther?" With that thought in mind, I push through the pain of the moment to find my inner potential, and never quit.

So if we understand the impermanence of pain, why do some of us struggle so with applying the same concept to pleasure? Oh, get your minds out of the gutter (there's not enough room for all of us in there!)... I'm speaking of the pleasure of the pallet! For one week, I abstained from my guilty pleasure of vanilla lattes and scones, and I FELT GREAT! Then came bike expo, with it's long hours, and high energy expenditure... we all fell off the health wagon at expo. But apparently the wagon took off at lightening speed because try as I might, I can't find it to GET BACK ON!

I know it's that damn hypothalamus! And if you're a fan of the Set Point Theory, you'll agree. I am currently at my lowest adult weight, but still carrying 23% (+/-) body fat. That's quite a few useless pounds that I'll be carrying over 140.6 miles. Improving body composition is one of the easiest (easy for who??) ways to improve VO2max, and hence, race performance. But if your body is happy where it's at, who are you to argue?

These are the kinds of things I contemplate on long runs or rides. Not long swims... on long swims I'm too busy trying not to loose count of my laps! Ha!

Another thing I've wondered about lately is self-imposed stress, and how people from all walks of life seem to do it, just in different ways. This idea started rolling around in my head when I started running downtown, passing by countless homeless on the streets of Seattle. I started wondering what they must think of me running by, with my matching technical outfit, $100 running shoes, ipod, etc. How ridiculous & indulgent I must seem to them, as I put myself through this rigorous training while they struggle to survive another day. I know that beneath the surface crap we're really not all that different. Bear with me here...

Any Matrix fans out there? Of course. Remember when Agent Smith tells Morpheus how the first matrix program gave everyone a perfect life with no struggle? And that it was a failure because the population rejected it? Well, I am not homeless (at least not today), so I train for Ironman.

I should have majored in philosophy. Did I tell you about the time I wrote a paper that won the class "think off" in Philosophy class? No? Well, another time...

Reprinted from No Try