"Ironbutt" How I survive and embrace being the wife of a triathlete

    “Why do you put up with it?” has to be the most thoughtless question to ask the spouse of an age-grouper Ironman athlete.  The insinuation is that a) the tremendous effort it takes to train for triathlons is wrong and/or b) I am crazy. 

     The beginning of the long answer to that question is that the presence of God is different for everyone.  For me, holiness is in the scent of the North Carolina Mountains, a symphonic orchestra playing John Williams, and the lilting poetry of Keats.  For my husband, God is mostly present in the Texas Hill Country, riding sixty miles on well worn pavement, his Cervelo screaming around hairpin turns.  His religious moments are in the light footfalls of a seven-minute pace on the trail at Town Lake and in the tense quiet morning of an Ironman race.  He is most content when he is training toward a goal and so, knowing how important it is to limit the creeping insistency of the “daily grind”, I have gladly sent him off on those excursions every day or two.  The exertion, wind, and scenery restore all that is depleted during his long work days and he returns to me loving and funny.

     I never worry about his safety on long rides. He is the one who puts flashers on his bike if it is dusk or dawn, wears blaring yellow when he rides by himself, and actually follows traffic rules on those long training rides.  If someone has the audacity to pass him without even an acknowledging nod, he clicks his gears and chases them down, only to allow the newly conquered to pass him again when he stops for a red light. 

     “It pisses off drivers if you act like you are the only one on the road,” he explains.  “You don’t want them aiming for you.”  His friends used to joke that it was like riding with race marshals all of the time.  So when the phone rang at 9am on Saturday, June 4, 2005, and Bo’s number appeared on the screen, I thought he was just letting me know that they were on time and he would be home for lunch.

     “Nance?” I heard his friend’s voice on the other end of the phone. 

     “What happened?” my heart dropped into my stomach knowing that Jay calling me on Bo’s phone could not be good.

     “He’s okay, but Bo got hit by a car,” he put those two freakishly disjointed sentences together and then gave me no believable information at all.

     Quickly, he put my husband on the phone to calm my fears, not realizing that Bo telling me that he was alright did not make it so.  His voice, always to calm in a crisis, told me that he probably broke his leg and that he was going to the hospital.

     A local woman in a 1992 Dodge Dynasty had decided at the last minute that she wanted a Starbuck’s, saw no cars, and turned left at about 25 miles per hour.  She did not see my husband on his bike coming at her at about 35 miles per hour.  The word he uses to describe the collision is “violent.”  He realized in that split second that he could not go in front of her or behind her to avoid it.  He was going to hit her straight on, so he made his body go limp and waited for the impact. 

     His left knee hit her right rear view mirror, breaking it off and sending his femur straight back into his left acetabulum (or hip bone), shattering it into pieces.  His bike smashed her windshield, but his body vaulted ten to twelve feet into the air, over the car, and down onto that shattered hip.  Though it knocked the wind out of him, sprained his thumbs, separated two ribs and cracked two more, he was conscious for the entire event.  His knee and shin bled profusely onto the street, but he had no internal injuries.      

     “Can you come get my bike?” he asked me.  Good GOD

     Shaking internally, but keeping my voice at a normal volume, so as not to terrify our four children, I quickly got them dressed and taken to friends’ homes.   I drove to the accident site with my hands clenched, knuckles showing white on the steering wheel the entire way.

     What seemed like forever passed as I stood in the freezing cold emergency waiting room, watching the doors, willing a nurse to appear and call my name.  Breath in, breath out, breath in, breath out.  The tiles on the floor were in need of a good scrubbing and I wished with all of my being that I had not been there to know that.

     Finally I was taken back to him.  His face was fine and his helmet on the chair did not have a scratch on it.  His hip was shattered.  He was urgently telling the doctor about his training for the Lake Placid Ironman the following summer and that a total hip replacement would end that, but the doctor was adamant.  If it could not be put back together correctly, he would replace it.  End of story.  If Bo wanted a second opinion that was fine, but if someone did not perform surgery on him in the next six hours, he would be dead.

     Oh.

     “I’ll never qualify for Boston,” he said, his lifelong dream ending.  His eyes welled up with tears. 

     I walked beside him down the hall as the orderly wheeled the bed toward the surgical suites.  We tried to be light-hearted about the situation.  “At least your helmet was fine and the kids got to swim all day,” “Hey doc, this leg has always been a little shorter.  Can ya do anything about it?” Bo joked, but the doctor stopped us.   

     “You don’t seem to understand.  This is a very dangerous surgery.  You need to be sure you have everything in order before he goes in there,” he told me, turned around, and disappeared through the double doors.  The orderly took several steps back to give us some privacy.

     We looked bewilderedly at each other.  Is he saying he could die?

Everything is in order?  How could we possibly have everything in order?  He’s not even forty.  Our youngest has only been out of diapers for a year.  How are we supposed to have everything in order?

     “Come back,” I finally told him.

     “I’ll try,” he gave me a half-hearted grin.  I stared at him and he stared at me.

     “If you don’t, then save me a place, okay?” I whispered.

     His face grew still and he nodded.  I leaned over his body and kissed him firmly, breathing him in.

     I watched the doors close behind him and stood in that freezing hallway until somebody led me away.

     That abrupt, wonderful, gloriously talented surgeon not only kept him here on earth, but pulled every shard of bone out of the smashed cartilage and screwed all the pieces back together with thirteen titanium screws and two plates.  Our three-year-old’s Lego Bionicles figures look better than that X-Ray, but they were his bones and they might heal.

     And so, the healing began.  Heparin shots to ward of thrombosis, managing pain killers so that crutching to the bathroom was not excruciating, managing painkillers with senecot and oatmeal and raisins to combat constipation, watching the swelling of his left leg to twice its normal size, dealing with being in a wheelchair, dealing with being on crutches, dealing with the kids’ fears that Daddy was broken, dealing with our fears that Daddy was broken, dealing with the impact to his soul that he might never be able to run again.

     He withdrew, not wanting to see anyone, not wanting to talk to anyone.  I panicked, thinking I was about to lose the best friend I ever had to depression, but instead, I got in his face, “This isn’t just about you, dummy.  Your friends are hurting, too.  They can’t put you back together, so they bring brownies and backscratchers and casseroles and movies for you to watch as an excuse to be here with you.  When you turn them away, you’re telling them that they aren’t good enough for you.  Let them in.  Let them love you.” 

     So he did.  He grew to love showing everyone his horrifying twelve-inch scar that was held together with staples and watch the look of shock on their faces.  He signed all of his emails, “Frankenbutt.”   The house swelled with family and friends who brought food and wine and books and backscratchers and listened to him tell the story of the crash over and over as he exorcised it from his soul.  I watched the light come back into his face. 

     “Well, I suppose he’ll put all of that training business behind him now,” sedentary, underachieving, thoughtless individuals commented to me. “This will put his head straight.” 

     “Oh, no,” I told their shocked faces. “He’s an Ironman.  Of course, that is something non-athletes can’t understand.  He’ll do it again and everyone who gets it will be there with him at that finish line.” 

     “Don’t change a thing about him,” I told God. 

     Our sixteenth wedding anniversary was coming up and I wanted to do something special to mark the day, considering that this could have been my first anniversary without him.  Since endurance training began, Bond’s wedding ring was a bit too large.  It bothered him that had to take off any time he ran or swam, so I decided to get him a new one that reflected who he was and why I would marry him all over again.  Sounds nice, but I am not artistic.  Neither of us paints or sculpts or visits museums.  I actually have been known to groan when the kids have a project that requires glue.  So after racking my brain for a week, I almost gave up and ordered another plain gold band, when I bumped his Ironman Canada plaque off the wall

          The night of our anniversary, I doped him up on Advil and hauled him to a white table-clothed, expensive-wine restaurant.  We carefully got him settled in an out-of-the-way booth, where no one could possibly bump into his seat, and ordered champagne.  I slipped the new ring on the thumb of my left hand and waited about twenty seconds for him to notice it.

     “What’s that?” he asked me.

     “It’s your new inspirational wedding ring,” I showed him. “First of all, it fits.  You’ll never have to take it off while you are training.

     “The band has a block M to commemorate every marathon you have run, but this one,” I showed him. “It has a diamond dot over it for Canada.  Your job is to dot all the rest.  You’ll be an Ironman again.  There isn’t a doubt in my mind.”   Broken and in terrific pain most of the day, he could only shake his head, not daring to wish my words to be true.  But he did wish it.  Knowing that I was behind him sparked him to acknowledge it.

     When Bo was given the okay to get out of the wheelchair, he would park at the far end of the building and crutch the long route to his desk. When he would see people waiting for the elevator to take them up one flight of stairs, he would head for the stairwell, crutch as fast as he could up the stairs, and beat the elevator.  The moment he could, we got him to the neighbourhood pool and he swam laps, gently moving his feet, working out the tightness in his legs.  He did exactly as the surgeon said; putting no weight on his hip for three months and at his twelve-week check up, the surgeon said “go.”

     We drove straight home, he went upstairs, put on a screaming yellow jersey and his helmet that didn’t have a scratch on it, and went for a ride on his bike.

     “How was it?” I asked him.

     “It sucked,” he admitted. “And it was glorious."

The Comeback - Ironman #2 Lake Placid, NY, June 22, 2007

Goals: Beat his Canada time from three years ago before the accident (13 hours, 16 minutes, and 6 seconds), finish in the top half of the field, and beat his two buddies racing with him that day.  All the difficult, painful, frustrating, agonizing hours have led us once again to the starting line.  Thank God.  Thank God he’s here to do it.  Thank God.

     We get up before dawn after not sleeping all night.  It’s chilly and quiet and all of Bo’s equipment, clothing, and nutrition are in their assigned bags ready to be taken to the transition areas.  Our hotel room smells of multi-grain Power bars, orange Gatorade, sunscreen, and the scent of newly printed t-shirts—mine proudly state TRANSITION VOLUNTEER and FINISH LINE VOLUNTEER allowing me past those guarding the gear of the 2,425 professionals and hopefuls that have given their bodies, minds, and souls to this quest.  Bond’s face is stoic, but I know he’s barely holding it in.  As we walk down the street to the venue, several hundred athletes maneuver their bags and bikes into this slow river of bodies heading toward their starting place.  It is holy, this march.  Hearing only the occasional nervous laughter break the tension in the air, their prayers are palpable, the silence so like the quiet in church before the organ music signals the beginning of a service. 

     The announcer has not yet started his playlist or encouraging tag lines.  About a tenth of the racers are here as I stand in my spot, pointing the way to the changing tent and marking station.  I don’t hover over Bo and his preparations.  He is taking in everything around him, pleased that he has this moment of quiet with ‘his kind.’ 

     He comes over to let me know he’s headed to the swim with a hug and kiss.  The moment is too big for words.  This is it.  This will be the proof that the accident and its effects are over or are they are not. 

      “Be great,” I grin at him, choking back the flood of pride and joy and love and fear I have for this man, thrilled that he is here again.  He heads off.  I stay at my post until the last racer leaves, then dash over and find a great spot on a rock above the crowd to watch the start.  I can’t pick Bo out in the sea of wetsuits and swim caps, but tears well up and slide down my face, “Don’t drown, dummy,” I whisper to him.  The horn blasts, the music blares, and they’re off!!  It’s a washing machine of arms and swim caps and goggles.  How anyone can survive that start is beyond me, but the churning mass manages to move forward and spread out, Bo and his two friends, too, I hope.

     I go back to my place and meet other spouses and parents and college-age kids of racers, doctors volunteering in the Medical tent, Bill, the walkie-talkie guy who hands me a megaphone.  Bo isn’t crazy here.  Here, he’s normal.  In Transition, I’ve got a perfect spot to see every racer come through and I get to try to make the racers laugh.  They need to laugh.  This is supposed to be fun, so I spend my time in the Swim-to-Bike transition hollering into my megaphone stuff like, “If you did not pee in the lake, the bathrooms are this way!”  “Make sure you grab your own bag or its owner will hunt you down!”

     It’s a long day of injuries, dehydration, and disappointments, but the time flies by as racer after racer moves along the 140.2 miles.  I volunteer at both transitions, running back to the hotel room between shifts to send a quick email report of Bo’s time to all of the parents, throw my jacket and jeans into a backpack for the chilly evening to come, and change into midday clothes (it was ninety that afternoon). 

     I’m back again to catch the finishers, a lot of them needing the medical tent because of the heat.  Bo was 20 minutes down the time he wanted for the bike and probably won’t beat his old time, so I’m thinking up all of the supportive things I can say to him. 

     13:10:00 I step away from the line of volunteers as the clock ticks closer to his goal time, but I sit down on the table under the tent, sad that the day had not gone the way he’d hoped.

13:15:50 “From Austin, Texas,” the announcer blasts, “Number Eleven Oh Seven, BO JONES, YOU are an IRONMAN!”

     I shriek and leap off the table, “That’s HIM!  THAT’S HIM!” My new friends holler with me as I grab a ribbon and medal and catch his eyes as he comes through the Ironman tape at 13:15:56. We’re sobbing and laughing.  He did it.  He did all of it.  And he made up the loss of time on the bike with the run.  His hip is fine.  He’s back.  It’s done.  He beat his personal best time by ten seconds!  He squeaked into the top half AND he beat both his buddies, though you couldn’t tell who won by all the tears and hugs as his friends saw him waiting for them at the finish line.  God is at the Ironman Finish Line, too.

     He’s doing Arizona with several of his buddies the weekend before Thanksgiving, more than willing to give up his “ownership” of them both.  I’ll be there with the rest of the crazy wives and husbands and kids, cheering on my Iron Man.

     He wants to put “IRONBUTT” on his jeep’s license plate.  Maybe Texas will go to eight letters by this year’s wedding anniversary.

A word to wives-of-triathletes just beginning their first training season,

There are several reactions to this support position that are very normal:

1)      As your spouse begins to shrink into a “fit machine,” do not panic and think that now he thinks you are a fat slob.  Bo began training for his first marathon when I was pregnant (the bastard) and it gave me a massive fit of insecurity.  His words to keep in mind--People who are accomplishing something for themselves want only to be honored for what they have done.  In fact, a lot of them feel that their efforts are underappreciated if their spouse begins their own life-changing experience at the same time.  Let this training season be for and about him.  If you feel motivated to become healthier and want to try something active for yourself, you’ve waited a long time to begin; you can wait a little longer before competing for time away from the kids or kudos for yourself.  Can you do a “boy” push-up?  I admit freely that several years ago, I could not.  I could do “girl” push-ups, but a “boy” push-up actually scared me.  I did more and more girl ones until I got up to forty, then actually found I was able to do a boy one!  It was awful and I thought I might strain my arms to the point of bursting, but I did it!  I built up to two, eventually getting to six!  On the day of my big reveal, I told him “I have accomplished something huge for me and I am about to show it to you.  You are to respond with the following:  ‘Wow, Honey!  That’s great!’”  The smart man listened and we are still married.

2)      Time spent training is another fear.  Yes, it does take time.  Full Ironman races require a buildup of training time.  Sixteen weeks out from the race, you can expect about 2 hours on the bike once or twice a week which builds up at the end of training season to add an additional six hours on one day.  Running can add another hour to three, three or four days a week.  Only once or twice would age-groupers do a nine-hour training day once a week, but it can be frustrating to a spouse if they are not prepared to expect that kind of time allowance. 

     What is a fair amount of training time?  The most problematic word in that sentence is fair.  Fundamental Rule of Life #1: Life is not fair.  It is not fair that women get varicose veins and fat thighs for a couple to have a child.  It is not fair that moms never get to sleep in, our boobs are the first thing to go, and when men can go bald they still look good.  If you think about or try to make anything fair, you will be a very unhappy person.  My way of dealing with four small children and an Ironman triathlete is to go away from him during the most difficult time of training (about six weeks out from the race).  If you are a “stay-home-mom” and have family or friends who live somewhere out of town (mountains, beach, swamp…) make plans to load your kids into your car and go visit those people and others for about three weeks.  Yes, travel with children does not really equal a vacation, but the children are communicating with different people than they normally do, they are discovering a new part of the country, and you do not have to be mad at your spouse every night at 6:30 when he falls asleep on the family room sofa and is a giant grump when awakened by a child giving him a good-night kiss at 7:30. Your spouse will be able to work at his job and do his triathlon workouts unencumbered by familial duties.  This sounds SO bad, doesn’t it?  Well, if it were regular life, it would be.  But it’s Ironman.  Most age-groupers only do one or two of these.  You can manage this once or twice. 

     If you handle the experience with gracious dignity, your triathlete will go above and beyond to accommodate you both during and after the event.  Workouts tend to be scheduled crazy-early to make it to the six-year-old’s soccer game and appreciative athletes make time for a nap, so they can take you to a nice dinner and a movie.  Watching Bo struggle to keep his eyes open always makes me think of Robert Frost’s

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

     A warning about early workouts: if your athlete gets up really early to ride his bike for four hours mostly in the dark, it is more dangerous AND he will be exhausted for the rest of the day, definitely falling asleep in the middle of the family room.  You then have to move the kids to keep them from waking him up into a grumpy mess.  Give the guy a break and agree that it is better for him to ride in the daylight (skip telling him about the falling asleep, grumpy thing).

3)      The equipment is expensive.  True.  So are houses, cars, dinners at restaurants, clothing, and college. Good equipment means a safer triathlete.  Screaming yellow jerseys are a great way to keep from being run over by a car—buy several.  A good way to offset expenses is to find triathletes who are hooked on the sport.  They usually have an extra bike they are happy to loan or sell at a much more reasonable price (new bikes can cost anywhere from basic $2,500 to impressive $15,000—average seems to be about $8,000).  Wetsuits can be rented, but it is better to buy his own (it costs the same as a gown you would wear to a charity gala)—maybe you can use it and take a scuba vacation for a girls’ trip next year!  Think of bike shoes the same way you would think of a pair of high-end heels.  If your spouse spends a fortune and does not like the experience, you can sell the stuff on Craig’s List.  If he does like it, the equipment can last for years and years to come—and get a lot more use than the dress and heels. 

4)      Nutritional requirements—every athlete has to figure out how to fuel himself.  Plan to buy a lot of Gatorade and nutritional bars (it’s cheaper and easier than fast food).  Do not pass judgment; no one gave you a hard time for eating nachos with ranch dressing every day of your first pregnancy!

Finally, I must encourage that you make signs, wear the t-shirts, and scream your head off at the finish line.  You will be SO much happier that you did.