Truth

As I'm the only doctor not on vacation this week at the Wound Clinic, I get to cover all the patients all week long. This means meeting new people which is quite fun and amusing for me. Don't let that statement change my crusty, jaded, and misanthropic image. ;)

Today, a well-dressed 57 year old gentleman wearing just a bit too much cologne told me that he used to go hunting with Tom Selleck.

"Oh, he's really a very nice man." he says.

I respond, "Tom Selleck seems like a nice guy on TV."

The patient goes on to tell me that his first wife was a Playboy bunny and that he knew Hugh Hefner. As I debrided the goo from his diabetic foot ulcer, I thought it would stand to reason that if one was married to a Playboy bunny, one might come to know Mr. Hefner. I must have looked interested because the patient went on to regale me with tales of travel to Thailand (he was a Vietnam vet), a 30 day cruise to South America from which he had just returned, an upcoming trip he was taking to Africa.

When I ask him where he'd been in Thailand, he answers, "I don't remember the names."

Fair enough, the Vietnam War was a long time ago.

Still interested in his travel stories (I love travel stories!) and planning my trip to Ecuador this spring, I ask him where his cruise in South America was.

He hesitates, "7 countries."

Hmm. I say, "I've been to Tanzania. Where are you going in Africa on your cruise?"

He stammers, "14 countries."

He's not making eye contact with me at all with these answers. I'm beginning to feel bad about making him so uncomfortable; and mercifully, I've finished dressing his wound.

I don't think he was trying to fool me. What could he possibly gain by convincing the female doctor in a Wound Clinic that he was married to a busty woman, knew Magnum P.I., and went on cruises? Besides, I didn't see any point in disturbing his fantasy world.

Whatever inside him that needed to feel worldly and important enough to tell me those things (which might be true, but does it matter?), I will never nor do I want to understand. How we perceive and process the world around us is our reality. I thought about how I quantified my own reality, my alleged truth. The measurable things are easy and concrete: the balance in my bank account, my shoe size, Vdot, my 5th grade math scores. The immeasurable truths: I like birds; I'm generous but want to take credit for the generosity; I often feel like I'll never be good enough; I really want to fit in---how accurate, how true are those? Ralph Waldo Emerson said: Truth is beautiful, without doubt; but so are lies.

I walked away from that patient thinking 2 things:

1. I wonder what it would be like to go hunting with Tom Selleck.

2. I hope that I truth I've created and believe about myself is accurate. If not, then I'll see you when I get back from my exotic trip with Steve McQueen--we're going on a cruise to 30 countries!

40-Year-Old Triathletes Gone Wild!

A Facebook acquaintance challenged me to a quiz named "What's your real age?" or something mildly enticing/slightly annoying like that. Though I rolled my eyes and started ranting about how physiologic age could possibly be estimated in a survey really meant to advertise Oprah's Acai diet or Miss Hollywood Starlet's wonderous face cream, I took the quiz anyway. Most of the questions were about lifestyle and health choices such as smoking, drinking alcohol/carbonated beverages/caffeine, eating fast food, and exercising regularly. As I don't smoke, drink or eat any of the above substances, and train for Ironman, my age was determined to be 30 years old.

How ironic that when I really was 30 years old, I was a surgical resident: chronically and utterly sleep deprived since 26 years old, drinking alcohol to drunkeness on my days off, eating bacon just about every morning, and inhaling donuts whenever available at the nurses stations. The only exercise I had was walking to and from work and jacking up my heart rate during some trauma case in the OR. At 40 years old, I haven't been healthier.

So Kevin and I took our healthy and youthful selves on a date 2 nights ago---a Christmas play followed by a dinner at our favorite steak place. I had been absolutely consistent with my training for the last month---every workout done, every interval nailed. I had also done my bike test early that morning and increased my FTP by 12 watts. There wasn't an ounce of guilt in ordering raw Oysters, a 21 oz. Cowboy ribeye, and apple crisp to follow.

Being a foodie, I HAD to have a glass of dry, crisp white wine with my oysters---a lovely French pinot blanc. And who DOESN'T have a glass of monster cabernet with an unctuous rare ribeye? Not Boon! By the time the apple crisp showed up, my lips were numb and the room was spinning. I was certifiably drunk from 2 glasses of wine consumed over 2 1/2 hours. Sheesh.

The next morning I awoke cotton-mouthed, nauseous, and green about the gills. My head remained on the brink of exploding all day. At work, I medicated with near lethal doses of ibuprofen (didn't touch the pounding in my head) and hydrated until I urinated copious amounts of dilute urine (also didn't touch the pounding in my head). Lucky for me, most of my patients that day either had dementia or were heavily sedated and didn't notice what a sorry sack of stool their doctor looked like.

Kevin, a bit wiser than me, drank only one glass of red wine with dinner. He didn't feel so great either the next morning, but shook off his hangover by the end of the day. I, on the other hand, continued to feel leaden and lethargic for 2 days. YES, a 2 day hangover from 2 stinkin' glasses of wine.

So much for my alleged youth---scientifically proven by a quiz on Facebook! My intention was NOT to get drunk, but to enjoy a complete gastronomic experience that included some wine---just 2 glasses filled 1/3 up like it should be in a nice restaurant. It's obvious that regardless of my healthy habits, Vdot, FTP, blood pressure, cholesterol level, resting heart rate---Boon cannot hold her liquor. Kevin and I shall have to shun our wild, bacchanalian lifestyles and have a glass of milk with our dinners the next time.

RKE

Monitoring devices: I love 'em. 8 years ago I trained with a heart rate monitor. I felt that it kept me honest with my level of exertion so that I don't go out too hard when I'm feeling frisky or really dog it when the couch is calling my butt. 3 years ago I acquired a powermeter for my bike--a measurement of my rate of work in real time! Last year I added a Garmin Forerunner to my armament and know my pace each second thanks to 12 satellites that orbit the planet. I've got numbers galore with which I can make bar grafts, pie charts, and plot jagged lines.



Being fatalistic, I wonder "What would I do without my gizmos? What would become of me if they all failed...a triathlon apocalypse?!"


Being compulsive, I practice predicting my heart rate, cadence, pace, watts during training. I'm very accurate with cadence, just okay with HR and watts, and completely off when it comes of running pace. Many successful athletes race and train soley with perceived exertion. To make my device-meltdown-contingency plan more complicated, I thought I'd dabble with the Borg Rating of Perceived Exertion.


The Borg RPE is a scale from 6 to 20 (because 1 to 14 would make less sense?). 6 = semi-comatose like watching late night tv. 20 = very cell in the body has been turned inside out from exertion. I am familiar with both states of being. However, what's the difference between 12 and 14? When I'm well-rested, I'm unable to discern "sort of working hard" from "kinda pushing it a little". After a 6 hour training ride, drinking from the water bottle is a herculean effort.


So last night as I pedalled away on the trainer, singing along with my workout tunes on the walkman (that's right:WALKMAN. Kevin calls it my MP1 player), it hits me. At less than 100 watts, HR under 110, I can sing along with anyone--including Maria Callas' rather shrill Un Bel Di. Between 101 and 130 watts, HR zone 3, I can still croon with Mariah Carey and Whitney Houston. That's right. Whitney Houston...specifically One Moment in Time. At FTP/zone 4 , I'm having a hard time hitting those high notes with Journey's Steve Perry or Rush's Geddy Lee. Above LT, my singing sounds more like Scott Weiland from Stone Temple Pilots with an asthma attack.

I'm calling it Boon's Rate of Karoake Exertion (RKE).

• Easy effort = able to sing all the words and hitting all the notes in the stratosphere of the treble clef.
• Medium effort = singing most of the lyrics, but struggling to be higha than Mariah.
• Harder effort = gasping every other word or line and/or singing only the back-up parts.
• Hardest effort = sounding like your favorite baritone in need of a Heimlich manuever.

It seems that sopranos and tenors may work harder than altos and basses. I'd like to see what a vocal powermeter would look like.

You don't have to limit your playlist to tunes from the '80's (Reagan rock, baby!). You could even add volume to tonal scale to fine tune your perception of exertion. For instance, hitting that final high note in triple forte can only be done when the heart rate is in zone 1 and during recovery watts. When you can only gasp: Justa small town girl...midnight train...aneee where... of Don't Stop Believin', then you're probably in zone 4.


So if you happen to be hanging out in the middle of the day on August 31 next year around Richter Pass, BC and hear a lovely rendition of Boston's More Than a Feeling, you'll know that Kitima's riding at steady wattage in zone 2.

My Cave of Pain

I've decided this season to do my run tests on the same flat course--the Lehigh Valley Trail--so that when I have to repeat my tests the only variables will be wind, temperature, and my ability to bugger it up. Last year I did run tests on a track, the 5K ish loop around my house, a hilly 5 mile Turkey Trot (which I used the last downhill 3 miles for my results). Of course, the results from a downhill run on asphalt elevated my Vdot. I declared myself Prefontaine incarnate and likely ran at paces to fast for my fitness.

Wednesday night I suited up with my headlamp and headed to the Phillips Road trailhead of the LVT. A few lonely headlights from cars on Phillips Road lit my path. I could barely see 5 feet in front of me. The trail is flat with fine cinder--no ruts, rocks, logs to trip over. Only two road crosses could potentially slow me down. After a 15 minute warmup, off I went into the engulfing darkness.

It's said that denning is a natural instinct in dogs. Then sometime in my past lives I must've been a dog (I drool like one during bike tests). On that night I found my running den: a small sphere of light created my headlamp, filled with the sound of my labored breathing, surrounded by near complete darkness. It reminded me of swimming open water in Seattle. Lake Washington was cold and murky. I would only see my bubbles and hear my exhalation in my dark swimming womb which I found strangely comforting and safe.

In my dark den, running 5K balls out, I was free from distractions. I couldn't even read my Garmin without shining the headlamp beam right on it. I was alone in my cave of pain. Ultimately, we are alone with our pain--especially the self-inflicted pain. To embrace it and run with it alone felt empowering and peaceful. I had always thought that I needed a race to do a run test, that I needed other runners to motivate me along (like my tendency to not let some girl wearing make-up pass me). That night I found I didn't need a race, mile markers, other painted competitors, or a finish line to spur me on.

I emerged from my den pleasantly surprised with a Vdot higher than I had anticipated. I can't wait to go back---next time I'll bring a chew toy and pig ears.

Biffing

Outside the wind is howling and churning up snow that resembles tapioca pearls. Indeed, Friday afternoon was the last vestige of a balmy and sun-soaked Indian summer. I am full of self-satisfaction when I say that I spent that glorious afternoon on my mountain bike lapping up every scrap of it. Sherry and I had made plans to play in the dirt on 2 wheels, but she had to cancel at the last minute for grown up obligations. My plans for play were wedged between 2 grown up engagements as well: a staff meeting (snore!) and an appointment to speak with my billing people. The staff meeting went 20 minutes later than planned (don't they all?)--I almost cancelled the ride for fear of arriving late for my next appointment.

Fear, shmear---I'm riding! I pull into Dryer Road Park and changed into my bike clothes in the car with 9 guys riding around the parking lot unbeknowst of my lack of modesty. I don my Camelback and helmet (all dressed up and ready to party!), clip in, and motor up A-train. 4 years ago when this park opened I remember this and all the trails being more narrow. I'd like to think that my riding skills have improved so much that the trails seem easier to ride, but it's more likely a combination of that and the trails widening and flattening out over time.

I start of with the flat, twisty trails: Ziggy and Treebeard. Without someone in front or behind me, I ride my own speed and carefully pick my way around the turns. It was good to not ride rushed and get comfortable with balancing at slow speeds. Don't get me wrong---I love to ride mtb with others. It pushes me out of my comfort zone. However, riding alone helped me be more confident in that comfort zone.

I rode over the rock gardens on Ziggy without dabbing--a first! Ziggy is the only trail at Dryer with rock gardens and that's a strong word. They're more like rock flower beds. Because the trail is flat with tight turns, the trick for skipping over the rocks is to carry enough moment through the turns and have some speed. The old mtb mantra: Speed is your friend; Brakes are the enemy. Yes, but speed is scary. Brakes feel secure.

Which brings me to biffing. On the Bikespeak forum (I'm growing weary of the Slowtwitch forum and its Iron-douches), a newby mtb rider asked how often people biff per ride. A few experienced sounding riders said about 3-4 every year, spectacular crashes that leave them unable to ride the next day. That's one every 3-4 months! I've only had 2 crashes that have hobbled me in the last 5 years. I must not be riding hard enough.

Then I think: rarely have I had a mtb ride where I am not bruised, scratched, had the wind knocked out of me, or all three--baby biffs. I don't think I crash less than I did when I first started riding. I just don't think about biffing as much as I used to. My first mountain bike was a 1991 Trek Antelope. I remember being so scared of crashing and falling that when I did it hurt ALOT. Now I just assumed I'm gonna biff and check for the flesh wounds in the shower after the ride.

I turn down Owl's Maze, marked with the letter O. O is for Old friend. This trail is the longest in the park, with descents, climbs and tight twists off-camber and around trees. I love this trail and know every leaf and root on it. On Friday, I am alone with all my memories of chickenshit unclipping and baby biffs on this trail. On that day, I finally LISTEN to myself and stay clipped in, weight back and ahhhh...glide over the spots where my left foot would've unclipped for security and caused a spill. The tree where I had caught the left edge of my handlebar and went down hard loomed up the trail. I've been triumphant since that crash in leaning away and clearing that tree. But this time I catch my left handlebar again. The wheel turns almost perpendicular to the top tube. I calmy and quickly turned it back and kept riding, shiny side up. I expected to biff, but corrected in time. A small victory against old fears.

I go on to clean a short, rooty climb with a small ledge that I've always had to unclip halfway up. I rode Owl's Maze again just to do clean that climb twice and convince myself that the first time wasn't a fluke. The ride concludes with a spin down S trail, a lovely, swooping trail through maples and oaks. I fly down an off-camber descent; and my back wheel slides under some wet leaves. I panic and grab my back brake, further locking up my back wheel. DUH. The bike skids out from under me and the top tube slams into my right leg. The daily biff. Brakes really are the enemy. I would've been better off speeding up and unweighting my back wheel. Oh well, next ride.

So it seems that old fears/past pain can be conquered by a combination of accepting them and revisiting them and making new, more positive experiences. Mission to be accomplish with a brave, open heart and shin guards.

Wah! Wah! Wah!

As you may recall, after I signed up for Penticton, I declared to dedicate a generous portion of my time and energy to swimming. My retirement from general surgery has given me the luxury of free time for rest, a predictable schedule to have a consistent basic training week, and more energy to build up strength in my noodle arms to move myself through the water. My plans included Masters twice a week with another 2 swims for "longer sets". I even found the best lane mate and personal swim coach--Janelle!--to further motivate me to swim and fine tune my stroke. I was gonna leave a flaming wake of fire behind me in Lake Okanagan with my Mike Phelps-like swim speed.

Sounds good, huh?

I didn't make it to one Master's class this week. No, my arms didn't fall off. No, I didn't catch rabies and have hydrophobia (remember that from "Old Yeller"?) My basic week has me swimming (in the evenings--that's due to Master's scheduling) on the day of my long ride and on my busiest day at work. Pretty lame excuses. I just didn't want to go to the pool: the water's cold, it's late, I'm pooped, wahwahwah! So I'm gonna drag myself to the pool this afternoon and swim---all by myself. No Janelle. Sniff.

Obviously, the petulant 5 year old Kitima got her way this week without even having to hold her breath during the tantrums. What is so damned horrible about swimming? My immediate answer is that no one truly enjoys doing something they're not good at doing. Yes, but I'm not very good at mountain bike yet I can't wait to get out on the dirt, knowing that I have at least a 90% chance of crashing/falling during each ride. At least swimming doesn't leave me scratched up and bruised.

Then Janelle reminded me: IM drills. GAWD! Do I hate IM drills. I propel myself backwards during the breast stroke; swim in place, bobbing up and down, during butterfly; and feel like I'm drowning during the backstroke. So wonder I suck at the drills---which is all the more reason I should be doing them.

So let me revise my answer to the above question: I don't truly enjoy swimming because I'm not good at it. However, I will and should persist if I feel that I'm improving---which is not just a faster 1000m free time trial, a faster IM swim at Penticton. I want that immeasurable feeling of being able to catch and pull without struggle, to slice through the water like a blue fin tuna, to swim with a rhythm that feels natural. No one was born with any of those things (except Charlie the Tuna). If I learned anything from surgery, it's that it takes alot of patience and practice to make something look effortless.

Back in the water I go--IM drills and all. If I can make laparoscopic gastric bypass look graceful, I can certainly learn to swim 200m IM without making the life guards nervous. The next time that whiny 5 year old who doesn't want to swim throws a tantrum and holds her breath, I'll just have to throw her into the water.

Going Home

I'm back from a 3 day visit with my parents. Just Mom, Dad, and me: my childhood joys of being an only child fulfilled! Mom makes my favorite Thai dishes; and I feel so sated and at home. I helped Dad find some nursery rhymes and Christmas song CD's so he can sing those songs with my nephew. I confirmed with Mom that her cat, Rambo, is indeed utterly blind. With every homecoming, I find out a bit more about myself and my family's history.

After raking leaves from their yard, I find the shed to be tidy and organized just as I would have it. Yeah, that's where the neatnik started. My inability to throw ANYTHING away is mirrored in a cupboard full of old jars (neatly stacked) that have been reused the for the last 30 years for storing spices.

I truly enjoy my parents company. I've always thought that if they weren't my parents I'd still want to get to know and befriend them. The three of us hung out and talk about politics, the stock market, birds, food, and vacation plans for 2009. One of the best things about me finally growing up is getting to know my parents as adults.

I asked Dad about his childhood. He explained how he wound up with 3 different birth certificates and still no exact date of birth. Dad was born in his parents' home in a part of Bangkok where Chinese immigrants lived. Neither he nor his parents made a record of what day, month, or year he was born. He went to Chinese school to learn to read and write Chinese (of course) before he went to public school which made him a bit older than the rest of the kids in his public school class. The teacher asked for a birth certificate. When none could be had, that teacher drew one up estimating Dad's age and arbitrarily setting his birth date at Jan 1. The next year in school another teacher asked for proof of Dad's age (Mom says that's because he was the only kid in 5th grade with a 5 o'clock shadow). That teacher thought his birth certificate was inaccurate and issued another one with her estimation of his age. Couple of years later the Thai government had a census and asked Dad's parents for proof of their kids' ages. My grandparents told the census officer that they were quite sure Dad was born the year of the horse, during some waxing moon and other Chinese date keeping (the Chinese calendar is lunar). The census officer (who was Thai and had limited understanding and patience for Chinese lunar dates) said the birth certificate issued by the teachers was completely wrong and issued another one according to the Thai calendar (which is NOT like the Gregorian calendar that we have). When it came time to determine the birthday, the officer said, "How about Jan 21?" Sure thing, no problem! So we really have no idea exactly when is Dad's birthday or how old he is.

Dad went on to tell me how his family came from China to Thailand. My great grandfather lived in China with his parents and 5 brothers (we have no idea how many sisters as it was tradition to give away infant daughters to the families of their future husbands). During many years of drought and famine (they were rice farmers), my great grandfather and his brothers couldn't afford a water buffalo or ox to plow the fields. So they took turns as the ox, put on the yoke, and tried to push the plow. This plan failed miserably for obvious reasons. They determined that if they stayed in China they would surely die of starvation. They could leave and go to Thailand, face the unknown, possibly fail, and still meet their maker, but at least they'd die trying.

As it turned out, my grandfather came to Thailand (as Dad put it: "with only his sleeping mat and pillow"), worked hard, and became very successful as a merchant. After 30 years, he made enough money to go back to China, buy a home, and retire comfortably.

He packed all his earnings (in the form of gold bars) into an ox-drawn cart and sent his son (my dad's uncle) to Laos to exchange it for Chinese currency--apparently, the exchange rate was better there compared to Thailand. When his son returned with his Chinese cash, Mao Zedong took over China, closed the country off, and started the Communist revolution. My great grandfather's Chinese cash was now worth nothing. (Which really makes our current economic situation not seem so bad)

He and his son were crushed. However, my great grandfather continued with his profitable business, weathered the Japanese occupation of Thailand during World War II, and went on to retire in Thailand with plenty of gold bars to spare. My dad's uncle eventually went on to own most of the Toyota dealerships in Bangkok.

So I guess the moral of the story is:

• Famine and drought can starve you and Communism can take away your life's savings, they still can't take away your tenacity, drive, and ability to be successful.
• Never trust in paper money.
• Knowing the exact day, month, and year of someone's birthday isn't that important as long as you remember to celebrate that person's existence in your life.