More shrapnel and fallout, 3 months later

What a long, strange trip it's been. Three months ago today, in fact.

First of all, way overdue, huge thanks go to Pat McGonagle with the Gilford Fire department. I know he saved my life. Everyone who read the Gilford Steamer knows he saved my life. I learned about the extent he saved my brain yesterday when my new doctors told me I should have brain damage.

They said that if the accident had happened in the halls of Mass General hospital itself I probably would have had more damage than I suffered because he was RIGHT FUCKING THERE. A crash cart with a team of specialists at MGH would have taken longer, and been less effective. I don't know what wave of the Timberman he started in, but OMFG am I glad I beat him out of the water. Now, I'm not gay, but look at this stud. http://karenbobotas.photoshelter.com/image/I0000UpLRBIS43fE (I hope that link works) You are more than welcome to draft off me any time in the future, Pat. And then, after being Superman, and passing me off to the superb talents of the rest of the Gilford Fire Department, he apparently calmly climbed back on his bike, and completed the race, at a better time than I have done it in the past. HFS, Pat, you just amazed me again.













These are assorted pictures from my stay in MGH. I was there for almost a month due to broken ribs, blood clots in my lungs, bleeding in my brain, and, of course, some minor cardiac issues. As far a month long cardiac and brain issues are concerned, I guess it was alright. 143 different needles over the course of it, and IVs constantly. It was on the FINAL day that they used painless tape to hold in the IV, as opposed to the duct tape they used until then.











Hey, there are 7 of the 15 stitches removed from my skull!

Well, at least my helmet survived. It will be enshrined.











So, apparently before the butchers at LRGH let me go to the real doctors at MGH, they decided to play with catheters. Which was so much fun that I completely blocked it from my memory. What I do remember is blood coming out from somewhere blood shouldn't. And it burned to pee as if I had just spent the night with the most respectible woman in Tennessee. Burning pee, and very disturbing discolorations. Thanks LRGH.

No photoshop here. No, that's not a metric scale.
Soooo, another benefit to hyper attentive, hyper vigilant doctors at the best hospital on earth is that I have my own personal AED/heart monitor attached 24/7. That signals every time I shiver, sneeze, or become even mildly excited. Which is interesting because of the effect to the libido on head injury victims. At least I know that works. And works. And works.

Oh! here am, going from Timberman to Mass General Hospital. I'm pretty sure they let me fly it, and then rappell to the roof. I am a stud, just ask me.


Well, at least for all the DNFs in the race, I did have the fastest time in the swim.

I now respect cops, flagmen, and race volunteers

Ok, it's time to get this one out.

I tried to forgive & forget, but can't do it.

The guy with the licence plate "Channel" is a complete douchebag. I told you this was coming.

Team Angry tried to help as volunteers for the half triathlon at Timberman this year. OMFG, it was probably the hardest job I have ever had.

We were at an intersection/turn, in the middle of nowhere, in Gilford. It was the slowest traffic street on the entire course. Team Angry, and one of Gilford's finest, Doug, had the duty.

Before the race started, the only traffic was literally little old ladies going off to church, and one young lady taking the drive of shame out of the trailer park. The local health club was closed that morning, specifically due to the thousands of bikes scheduled to go past that day. The one house within walking distance had the lawn chairs out, awaiting the excitement.

K, T, the cop and myself determined our jobs, and fooled around with our sweet orange flags for about 2 hours, waiting for it all to begin. We set up cones, got our coffees, and talked cop talk with our new cop friend. We were at a T intersection, with the bikes going to the left by us.

At 8:45, the first bikes started coming by. It was easy. "LEFT TURN AHEAD, GO LEFT OF THE CONES!" Keith then followed up with with some good cheering, and that was the last we saw of them.

I can handle this. A minute later, another bike, another yell, another cheer. Hey, this is fun.

It went on that way for about 5 minutes, until a car came from the cop's end. Straight into the bikes that are coming more frequently. Which I then had to stop, because they wanted to drive in the bike lane. With bikes coming.

I'll leave this part as I did it; badly.

Some of the drivers were pissed off that they had to wait. Because they apparently ignored the twelve foot, lighted signs, advising an alternate route, that had been out for two frigging weeks. As if a Sunday morning is so important at 9:30 fucking AM that they can't wait 4 minutes. Hey dick - God sees you, and it's more important to show signs of Buddha-like patience for strangers than it is to be there for the first two bars of Amazing Grace.

Actually, most people were very understanding. Almost all of them were, actually. A minivan full of New Jersyites seemed annoyed.

The locals were all pretty cool, because without Timberman, Gunstock, and a Walmart TV commercial featuring a driver from here in 2002, it wouldn't even be on the map. Gotta love and support the tourist dollars.

It was going pretty well, until the true thundering herd started coming by. After 10:15, it was almost non stop, with very short breaks in the bike crowd. We would then yell "GOGOGO!!!" to the drivers, who would peel out faster than the pit stop at Loudon.

Until this one complete asshole decided to leave the trailer park. Now, I don't know what he was doing there; if he lives there or wanders the park in a short skirt, if he wears dresses or leather pants, rides a Siobhan or not, is paid in dollars, crack, or Ramen chicken noodle soup. I refuse to speculate.

I will say his license plate say "Channel" I won't say what state. figure it out.

He sat in the driveway, and wanted to pull into the oncoming bikes, into their flow. It would have been much, much easier to take a right turn. Sure, it would have added a couple miles for the detour, but he was going to run into 2 more roadblocks either way he went. And with that license plate, I knew he was a local.

So, after about two minutes, he decides to ignore both me, and T, telling him to wait. He pulls straight across the road, and blocks the bikes. He created a funnel for one of the bikers, who had to slam on his breaks, and still caused the biker to hit him, and another car. Luckily, the biker wasn't hurt. Pissed, absolutely. At me, probably. It was my job to prevent that. I don't blame him.

Doug was too far away to do anything. We yelled at him to get out of the way. He decided that using the F-bomb was the right thing to do instead. He then started to open his door, but T ran over, and the coward slammed his door and put it into gear. He probably didn't want us to see his tutu.

Then he pulled onto the lawn, drove through two front lawns and took off.

I know one Marina that I will never get gas in at Lake Winnepesaukee. That's just a guess.

Then, K was waving at a Q-tip to stop, and she hit his arm and flag, and drove right past him, Doug, the cones, and followed Mr. D-bag Channel up the road.

I can see how she woould hit him, it's not like blaze orange two hundred sixty five pound Clydesdale is noticable on a sunny day.

Next year, if they let us, I hope to do something easier. Like quantum mechanics.

I Love Post Race Timberman

A). It’s over, and I feel great. Team Angry, Team Angry Jr, and Anger Management are all there. Hugs to my bro’s, sis, and family. Big gay hug to the BFF. Ice cold towel, fresh water, and a smile. We go over to the transition area, and just start to chill. The beer tent awaits. And now, the full effect of Team Angry hits me. We are 4 of the happiest bastards going right then.

2). My mom wants to get a picture of the team together. So we cluster together, and the strangest thing happens. 5 flashbulbs all go off at the same time. We have paparazzi. One guy comes over with a get well card for us to hold. It’s for one of his teammates who had something horrible happen to him last week, like a broken back, or skull. He’s getting picture cards from a bunch of the regulars, giving him a thumbs up. God, I hope he didn’t have a yeast infection. More people take our picture. Usually from behind. I have no clue why. Well….maybe I do.

Cow). The beer tent.
How much better does it get than to have a really good workout, followed by free beer, laughter, congratulations, and teams of nubile athlete women clamoring to get their pictures taken with Team Angry in full plumage?

Not very.

We ran into K’s BFF from the last race, who of course won the Clydesdale division this time. Great job yet again, Joe. I met a fromer NE Patriot who wants Team Angry to make a special appearance at another Tri in September. And we just hung out. I love this
$). Post race gear trading. Well, not exactly trading, since the owners are gone. There are seagullthletes swooping around transition area, which is almost empty, grabbing cool t-shirts before tomorrow's racers come in, and do the same thing. I think it’s a swimmer thing. There weren’t any CCCP sweats, or Bernal’s Gators towels, or Old Colony YMCA t-shirts out there, but I saw some happy thieves. (I’ll give you this Boston Marathon shirt for that Las Vegas triathlon – the size fits you better) Lost and Found, indeed.

Gears are not for always for pussies, at least not in the race…

The bike was great this year. Training in Flatsachusetts does not get me ready for the Timberman. I’ve already discussed this, ad nauseum, in prior posts.

I will say, it wasn’t so bad this year. I made it past the carnivorous guardrail, through the twists and turns in the course, and then, just as I started to get worked up, the rain came. A light, gentle, warm, life giving rain that totally rejuvenated me, and everyone else on the course. Except this one guy.

He left a lot of flesh & blood on the course this year. And still he beat the crap out of my time. I raise a drink to you, stranger in the transition area.

No stops, no wobbles, no near misses. My soundtrack kinda got stuck at “I Wanna Do Bad Thing To You” for about 2.5 miles, uphill, in the rain, but that’s another issue. I did indeed use my gears, finally, and there were a few downhills where I couldn’t even keep up with my peddles. I love going that fast, on wet pavement, passing people. I felt like a drunken Hermes.

The bike ended, and I started the run on legs that were still almost good. I made it all the way up to the street, past Anger Management, Jr, and friends, and most of a mile before I slowed to a walk. My favorite massage therapist’s advice came back to me. “I love the Run” started moving through my mind, with nothing to really latch on to.

Good try Pat, it ain’t happenin’.

After 2 or 3 sprint-run-sprint cycles, I noticed another guy, doing the same thing. So, my next time past, I slapped him on the shoulder and said something like “fug-git, we’re in the same boat, let’s get this bitch done.”

So I have a new BFF. Whose name I immediately forgot. I’m pretty sure it’s Wes, and if you ever check this, let me know, ok?

It worked out well. I had my best time, ever, by over 11 minutes. Each time I passed another Angry, I was running, which was cool. I also beat my goal by over a minute, and I didn’t collapse.

We were going to cross the finish line together, like a couple of g—s, but woman in a blue shirt like his cut between us, and I thought she was him, so I picked up the pace. And burned my BFF. Sorry Wes.

However, thank mighty Thor I did, because Nicki was only 3 steps behind me, a fact of which I was clueless, because when I passed her earlier, I still had half a mile on her.

Then it was on to the celebration..

Angry Kids Rock the Tri

The first annual Granite Kids Tri was today in Windham NH. Team Angry Junior was in attendance, with a first timer kicking butt.
Timmy, Molly, Jack, and George all were raring to go. I can attest that Timmy was up at 3:30 am, and dressed by 4 for the hour and a half ride up to NH.

The weather was spectacular! Low 60s, and driving wind and rain from Hurricane Danny passing offshore. The lake was about 10 degrees warmer than the air, and most of the parents and spectators were jealous that their wet clothes were colder than the kids. They did cancel the bike portion for safety reasons, but the rest was on. One thing about kids, there were no wetsuits in evidence anywhere. You all rocked, kids!

They ran it in 3 waves, and we had team members in all three, so the pictures are sporadic.

George, 6, was a monster, he came in sixth in his wave, and was the FIRST six year old to finish! WOW!

Timmy and Molly started their wave next, and really rocked. Molly finished third in her age group. Way to go Molly and Timmy.

Jack went in his wave, and he rocked his too.

Meme’ and Papa came down for the excitement, and it was great seeing them. They loved watching the show, even if Papa did have to park with everyone else, and not in the No Parking area like he thought he should be able to.

Where do I start? How about the beginning.

The weather could not have been better. The walk down was typical, temps in the 70's at dawn. I usually walk down to transition alone these days.

I enjoy the view, get my head straight, and try not to puke. I was sure I was going to have a picture this year of the place I didn't puke up my breakfast.

No such luck.

I love Timberman. Once I was empty of my nervous energy, and Carnation instant breakfast, I walked down the last road, got my number, age, and C marked on my body, and headed into the transition area. Team Angry were all in a row, and in a sweet rack area. Kind of unusual, we are typically separated all over the place.

Yeah, that's us all, almost ready to start.

This year, the Clydesdales are in the 2nd wave, at 7:06 am. Nicki is in the 5th wave, 18 minutes later. We made a quick call home to let them know to get their asses down there, now, for the start, listened

to the murmur of announcements, and penalties, which is a lot clearer now, and feigned interest in Oh, Canadia. I tried, I really did. We have a strong Canadian heritage, going back to the 17th century, from an island, off an island, off of Cape Breton. Great Uncle Napoleon loved it last time I tried to sing it, even if it was horribly, horribly inappropriate at the time. Thanks for the rum, uncle Nap.

Then we showed true enthusiasm for our own Anthem, forgot my watch, and headed down to the water.

Let's go get angry. Or not.

Timberman 09 is in the books

Quick results, more to come.

Team Angry had a great time at Timberman 09!

We all finished, alive, with no injuries. I broke 2 hours, Keith, 1:43.35, with a mystery penalty, Todd, 1:50.00, and Nicki, 1:45.02. All had good times, the statistics will all be compared and discussed later.

Great weather, some rain on the bike, that felt phenomenal, and a good time was had by one and all at the tent afterwards.

We worked as volunteers at one of the big turns, the Hosey Hell Hill, on the bike course on Sunday, for the Half. Stories to tell about that. And yes, "Channel", you are, and will always will be, a F'ing A'hole. We know who you are, and will start our never ending torment of you very soon.

Did I mention that I broke 2 hours?

And, of course, that we had a great time? As always.

Thank you Timberman Crew!!!

Oh hell, It's tomorrow

I better go train.

Heading up north in about an hour. Team Angry will kick ass.

I will break 2 hours. And, as my personal massage therapist tells me to tell myself, I LOVE THE RUN.

I'll let you know how that worked out, Pat.

Bloody stump

Okay. You all wanted to hear this one.

2006.

This is the year we are all doing the Timberman Individually.

I had trained, a bit. Had the swim. I was ready for the bike. This is the first time Team Angry had a full showing. Todd is there. Captain K is there. I am there.

I puked, as always, on the way down to the starting point.

We stroll in. The volunteers marked our age, and the big C on our calves. We head down to the water together, joking, keeping it loose. Chatting with friends and acquaintances. I spot a lawyer friend from home, we see Team Flashner. The family is out in full force.

I hit the water, and almost immediately my chip comes off my leg. Luckily, the person I just passed grabbed me and gave it to me. I put it back on, and got going. The swim went well, I caught up to a few people in the prior waves, left a lot of people behind, and came in better than halfway through the entire pack, 416 out of 948.

Ok, pretty happy with myself. I even butterflied the last 10 yards, just to make my point.

I ran into the transition area, Shoes, socks, shirt, and headed out.

Onto the bike, quick right turn, then up the hill.

I was already hearing “Hey, OLD SCHOOL!” from behind, mostly because of the bike rack. I get to the top of the first hill, about 1.5 miles into it, and it happens.

The guardrail leaps right out in front of me.

Actually, somebody passed me, I was going to slow, wobbled, and hit the guardrail with my right shin. Hurt life a motherfucker.

Which I then said. I stopped, and looked. “Gee, that looks like blood. Kinda a lot, too.” Maybe I should do something about this other than swear?.? So I did step one in my lifeguard handbook. I rolled up my sock, took a few steps, to make sure nothing was broken, and got back on the bike.

As previously expressed from last year, I would rather die, with my sweet old mother watching me go down to a watery grave than not finish this damned race. So I start pumping, glad beyond expression that I am near the summit of this hill. I get to coast for about a half mile, taking stock, readjusting my GI Joe bandage, and just curse myself for my clumsiness.

Long story short, I finished the bike (937th) (How the hell did I still beat 9 people?) and headed out of the run transition. Only 3 miles to go. Past the family. Twice. The homestead as right at the one mile mark, so I sucked it up, and kicked it into a jog. Dad’s there, the kids, the spouses, and Cory, from Team Flashner. As they all cheer encouragement, Cory starts to jog along.

“Hey there Curt Schilling….what’s going on down there?”

“Shh…don’t tell Mom, she’ll freak.”

“Ok Dude, go easy”

“Urrmph”

So on I went, actually slowing to a walk, but kept going.

Those last hundred yards were the best of my life. K & T, done hours before (of a race I finished in 2:14) were pre-warned by Cory. I didn’t even get to the transition area, they walked me over to the EMT tent. Where one of Gilford’s finest pealed down my sock, and said, quite matter of factly

“OK, you have 2 choices, ambulance, or on your own.”

So I look down, and found out that I can actually look at my own exposed

shinbone without puking my guts up.

Went to the hospital, patched me up by 1:30, so that I could make it back the Gunstock to go see Tim, and the rest of Team Angry, Jr division, compete in their trialtlon.

So that explains the divot in my right shin.

Getting ready!!

32 Days, 21:20.13 to go.

And I am more serious about the training this year than I have ever been. About frigging time.

I’m over training the bike this year, because Bridgewater may as well be West Memphis Arkansas when I want to find a hill. I figure if my bike ride is longer than the actual course, it all washes out in the end. I know I am just kidding myself about this, but it’s still a better plan than I have historically been executing.

I finally replaced the battery in my odometer, and it was almost a mistake for the first few rides, because I have seen my speed, both top, and average. I’m averaging 1?.3 MPH. I’m almost Lance-like in my efforts.

Today I did something different. I brought the MP3 player. Completely illegal. They will penalize me if I use it at the Timberman, but I was in a mood.

I had forgotten about the power of good music. And, the power of crappy music as well. I figure the time I make up will more than compensate my penalty minutes.

Once I have the soundtrack down, I will repeat it constantly until it is ingrained into my soul. The same way I still feel like I should be doing a flip turn at “back to school, yeah” in Zep’s “Whole Lotta Love” and picking up my head to “Looooooooove ba boom ba boom” and climbing out of the pool at “I wanna be your back door man”. If I can time this so that I am climbing hills to the sounds of AC/DC’s “You Shook Me” I’ll be golden. And if I can time The Proclaimers for the last hill, I’m gonna soar.

Not today

Sooo, back to the team.

We did the relay another year, with K & J switching roles. It worked out fine that year. No horror show and we all made out pretty well.

Next up, individual efforts. Well, maybe the sprint. Yeah, I can handle a sprint. What’s the worst thing that can happen?

Nothing much, the first year.

K beat me out of the water. Groan. There’s a year full of abuse just got banked away.

Todd beat me through transition. Double groan.

The bike went ok, no real surprises that year. The big hill seemed extraordinarily long going up, and surprisingly short going down, before turning around at the furthest part and heading back. That’s when I realized the hill was probably an illusion, because it was longer going up this side and shorter yet again going back down. I think the first twenty five miles of my thirteen mile bike ride was all up hills.

A lot of people confused me, usually as they were passing, with comments like “Hey, Old School!” Maybe I should have taken the carry rack off the back. My Brockton Enterprise paperboy bag has been gone for a while now; I don’t think I needed all that extra weight. It was very cool being able to see and hear the spectators on the bike course. We don’t get too much of that ¾ of a mile into the swim. They were there, consistently, but sporadically. I liked seeing them, and zooming by.

The run, as I may have mentioned before, was hell. I got to the end of the starting chute for the run, and needed three points of contact to surmount the monster hill to the road, the entire 6 feet of elevation and a fifteen degree angle, but once on the road, smoooooth sailing.

I think I got about a quarter mile before I slowed to a walk. I had to conserve energy to go storming past the family at mile marker one. My Grandmother moved faster after her third stroke.

When I saw Dad & Mama up the hill, I picked up the pace, smiled, gave at least a couple of the kids high fives, and cripped my way up the hill a little farther. The first water station is right next to their house, and I grabbed two or three waters, and kept going. Long gentle hill, all the way to that far point, past the New Hampshire Reggae guys playing bongos – I love them – and back down the hill. I was passing some, being passed by many more, just focusing on the end. There are a lot more spectators here, all with a kind word, usually bullshit. The biggest lies are “Looking strong! Looking Good! Only a mile left! All downhill from here!”

I live in this neighborhood. I know better. And I damned well know how strong I looked. I’m a Clydesdale, dammit.

I passed the family again, barely grunting at them this time, down the last mile. The real one.

My mind was pretty much gone by now, and the turnoff was in sight. Flat land from here on. I picked it up again, and could really hear the festival now; the muffled blare of the announcer, and more and more people clapping, and cheering. I was at the point where I wanted to just drop, but the crowed carried me, emotionally.

I turned onto the grass, and into the chute, to the finish line. It was packed with spectators, all applauding, yelling, and shaking their cowbells. It was great. I don’t care what kind of coma you’re in, this was worth it all. I was finally almost done. I kicked in my greatest sprint manageable, and got through to the end.

Gulping air, I see K & T right there, the rest of the family not too far away, and smiled. I did it. Yay me. Grabbed some water, toweled sweat off my head and chest, and just stood there. Forgot to even check my time, it was (cough cough).47. Good enough for a first time. Hell, at least I didn’t break anything.

This time.

Heavy duty training weekend

115 days, 19:16.21 to the start.

This weekend counts as a brick. It was 85 degrees on Saturday. We were skiing 16 days ago, so it’s time to try a brick. We’ll go bike/swim.

I threw T in the Truck, and off we went to Scussett Beach. The primary reason was actually to do some Geocaching. I scouted out about 9 possible caches, and it was time to finally drop off a Travel Bug we picked up ages ago. The Cape Cod Canal has a walk/bike path. There are miles of trail throughout the State Park, and there is the Mighty Atlantic.

We got there about 1:30, and headed straight to the beach. First, we walked out to the end of the jetty. Then, along the beach, looking for gems. When he was done looking for gems, I finally walked up to my ankle. Brr. I walked up to my knees, and the vicegrip of pain was starting to take its toll. However, I was starting to garner some attention, from the 150 people who were all fed up with the winter as well.

Couldn’t back out now. I took three stork steps through water about 2 feet deep and plunged. And then I porpoised up and out and about 50 feet up the beach.

I have been more comfortable. I checked the Coast Guard website, and the water temp was 42 on Saturday.



At least I didn't scream like a wounded bear this time.

After I strolled out onto the beach, and into the towel, we headed back to the Trucoma, ostensibly for dry clothes. I waited in the greenhouse front seat until I could feel my limbs again. Then I dressed and we grabbed the bikes for our Geocache adventure.

I swam a total of four feet, and biked three miles. We hit 7 caches, found 5, my gears broke, and we both wound up with flat tires. Timmy’s was flat on Sunday, you should see the thorn I pulled out of his tire. My flat was at the furthest possible point from the Trucoma we were going all day.


Well, at least I stopped shivering.

Monday.