Iron Heart: The True Story of How I Came Back From the Dead (20 page)

B
efore the accident severely rearranged my future in sports, I toyed with the idea of someday competing in an Ironman triathlon—a 2.4-mile swim, 112-mile bike ride, and 26.2-mile run. The granddaddy of the Ironman is in Kona, Hawaii. I watched the Hawaii Ironman on television, and was always fascinated by those who competed in the world’s toughest single-day endurance race.

My unfortunate encounter with the dump truck, however, shelved those Iron dreams. They naturally turned to rust. Even when I was sufficiently recovered and swimming and lifting weights, the Ironman seemed an impossible quest, on par with winning the Powerball lottery. Yet on a whim one afternoon, almost three years since the crash, I decide to check out the Ironman website.
Perhaps in several years
, I fantasize,
I might be physically ready to participate in an Ironman triathlon
.

The Ironman’s motto is “Anything is possible.” I can certainly relate to that phrase. I notice on the website that there’s a “contact us” button, so I begin typing an email seeking information about how to register for a race. But then I get emotionally carried away and allow the words to gush out. I tell them all the details of my accident, trauma, and recovery.

About six weeks later, while I’m on the computer and listening to Ted Nugent’s “Stranglehold,” Peter Henning of the Ironman sends me an email.

Dear Brian,

I am the producer of the NBC television show for the Ironman. Your story is certainly worthy of being a feature story on the NBC show. Have you been participating in any triathlons? If so, please send me a list of the races and how you did. Where have you been training for the Ironman? I would like to speak with you in person. If all the criteria are met, and I don’t see why they wouldn’t be, we definitely would like to follow your day in Kona and video an interview at your home, and also shoot some training on the bike and run. Do you still live near the hospital that treated you? If so, are any of the doctors who worked on you still at that hospital? I am also sure our PR/ Media department would like to get involved as well.

I immediately call Peter, but judging from his initial questions, I assume he thinks I’m still in a wheelchair. I explain that I’ve recovered quite a bit since I was let out of the hospital and tell him about my bodybuilding. So he knows that I’m fit. But I’m in no shape to do a triathlon. The longest swim race I would normally do on the swim team was a hundred yards. The ocean swim in the Ironman covers 2.4 miles—that’s equivalent to just over forty-two hundred-yard races. It’s also been years since I’ve been on a bicycle. And running is something I usually do on a treadmill for ten or fifteen minutes. How could I possibly get in shape for the 2007 Hawaii Ironman that was less than four months away? This is a race that requires a year of serious training, and that’s assuming you’re already in decent shape. While I can lift a small mountain of iron at the gym, I’m far from being an aerobic warrior. I have the muscles, not the cardio. I’d be a disaster, a total train wreck in a triathlon.

Peter reassures me that after all I’ve been through, I won’t have trouble with the mental aspect of the race. But he emphasizes that since I have never done a triathlon, I have to prove to him that I’m physically capable of swimming, biking, and running for a full day. Most importantly, the first thing I need to do is to get my doctors’ medical approval. If I receive a thumbs-up from all of them, says Peter, then the next step is to complete a half-Ironman triathlon, which consists of a 1.2-mile swim, 56-mile bike ride, and 13.1-mile run. I must be able to finish this race without any medical problems and within the required time limit. Once these two steps are completed, the NBC staff in charge of the Ironman broadcast will decide whether I will get a media slot to compete in the Hawaii Ironman in Kona on October 13.

I tell him that I’m interested and will get the ball rolling by talking to my doctors. When I hang up, I’m bouncing off the walls with excitement. I call my mom at work to tell her the big news, but I detect hesitation and noticeable tension in her voice. “Uh ... the Hawaii Ironman? The race we always watch on TV? That Hawaii Ironman? When is it?” The protective motherly instinct takes over.

“In October,” I respond

“No, Brian, come on, that’s crazy. It’s mid-July, There’s no way you’ll have enough time to train for a race in October. Can you ask them if you can do it next year? Your body’s not even completely healed.” Her voice is full of panic.

This isn’t the response I expected, but I do agree with her about the timing. October is awfully close and I’m definitely not ready for something like this—but how can I pass up this opportunity? I call my dad next.

“Hey Dad, guess what?” I say cheerfully, hoping that he hasn’t already talked to my mom. I tell him the good news.

“What? Are you kidding? That’s fantastic! That’s the big triathlon, too. When is it? And what did your mom say?”

He agrees with her that it’s too soon, and then there’s the issue of my lack of training. He suggests that we should have a family discussion when everyone is home.

While I wait for them, I sit down in a reclining chair by our newly built pool and review my prospects. I don’t own one of those fancy triathlon bikes. The most biking I’ve ever done was on a cheap recreational bike when I was younger. I’ve done no open-water swimming. And running? Even though I was on my high school track team, the most I ran was from the throwing circle out to fetch the shot put or discus. I’m not even sure how one is supposed to train for a triathlon. Plus I feel sluggish from all the weight that I’ve gained as a bodybuilder. For the past year and a half, I have not been doing much cardio because I have focused on lifting heavy weights. All this accumulated muscle mass is now my enemy in a triathlon. From what I’ve seen on the Ironman telecast and on their website, there aren’t many triathletes who weigh 230 pounds. I need to lay off the protein powders and six meals a day. If I can lose a few pounds before the half-Ironman race, then I’ll be lighter on my feet. But my main concern is obtaining the medical approvals. And for that to happen, I first need my parents’ permission.

After my dad gets home, I stand by the front door and look out the window as I watch my mom drive down the driveway and pull into the garage. I think about all the words that I’ve mentally rehearsed, but as soon as she opens the door, my mind goes blank.

“Hey Mom, how was your day?”

She puts her hand up and stops me short. “I have no problem with you doing the Ironman next year. But this year is way too soon.”

Later that night after dinner, I spell it all out for her. “Mom, I understand exactly how you feel and I don’t blame you. But when has something this great happened to me? It’s a like a gift. If I can do this race, it’s going to show that I’m healthy, and I need to know that, because I still feel like I have to hold back in life, that I have limitations and restraints on what I can and can’t physically do. Every time I cough or sneeze, you want to rush me to the hospital. We need to know that my body is healthy and normal again, and if I can finish this race, that will be our answer.”

She doesn’t buy my argument. In fact, she has that same anxious look that I was used to seeing in my hospital room, but this time she stands her ground and doesn’t duck out of sight. “Brian, you’ve never done a triathlon. Where are you going to get the bike and gear? We’re still paying off our medical bills. I’m concerned about your health. I don’t know if your heart and lungs could even handle this. You could die out there—have you thought about that?”

“Mom, if the doctors don’t give me a medical clearance, then I won’t do it. I’ll thank Mr. Henning for his time and interest and I’ll never bring it up to you again. But let’s just see what the doctors have to say before we shoot the entire idea down.”

My dad chimes in. “JoAnne, look at what he’s been able to do. He has defied the odds over and over. Brian has never failed at anything that he has put his mind to. I believe that he can do this.”

She finally relents. “Well, I think hearing from your doctors will help me feel better.”

The next day, she speaks with Dr. Daee, who is familiar with the Ironman. He believes that I will be fine doing the race, though he suggests that I meet with my cardiologist, Dr. Saeed Koolaee, for his opinion. Dr. Daee’s preliminary green light gives me hope. After all, he operated on my vital organs several times.

The next doctor on our list is Dr. Catevenis, so my parents and I drive up to Prince George’s Hospital and we ask him what he thinks about the race. Dr. Boyce, the ICU codirector, is also there. They both tell me they are fine with me doing the race as long as I promise them that I will take my time and that if I feel any possible trouble with my heart rate or breathing abilities, I’ll take a break or quit.

The following week, I schedule an appointment with Dr. James Harring, who is our family doctor and is familiar with my hospitalization and recovery. He doesn’t think that I should have many problems with the Ironman as long as I pace myself and don’t overdo it. He takes some blood samples before I leave.

The final person to see is Dr. Koolaee, who will be the deciding factor. My mom comes with me. She wants to hear his thoughts about the Ironman, because, for one thing, I might be on the course for up to seventeen hours.

The last time Dr. Koolaee saw me, I had just been released from the hospital and was in a wheelchair and extremely thin. He is surprised by how much progress I’ve made.

He begins the checkup by taking my blood pressure. “Well, your blood pressure looks good. Any problems with your heart rate in the past few months? Like when you work out with weights, or swim?” He places his hand around my wrist to measure my pulse.

“Well, to be honest, I try to focus on listening to my body, especially my heart, when I’m doing any type of physical exercise,” I respond. “I haven’t had any problems since that second scare when I went back to the hospital for five days. I’ve been okay since then.”

He takes his stethoscope and listens to my chest and back. “Your heart rate looks normal too, but I still want to run a series of echocardiography tests on your heart.” We schedule the tests for Saturday.

For the rest of the week, I can’t go five minutes without thinking about the tests. Saturday finally arrives and my parents and I make the trip to Dr. Koolaee’s other office. The nurse tells my parents that they have to stay in the waiting room because there is not enough space where I’m going to be examined.

It’s a dark, chilly examination room, with most of the light projected from the machine’s screen.

I sit on the lightly cushioned blue table and listen to the machine’s hum. My heart rate is rising just from the uncertainty. Dr. Koolaee sees that I am nervous. “No need to worry,” he says. “You’ve done this before. It’s pretty much like a sonogram of your heart. What I’d like you to do is just lie back on the table.”

Dr. Koolaee then applies a jellylike substance to my chest before affixing sticky electrode patches. “All you have to do is breathe normally and relax.” He proceeds to roll a small rounded plastic device around the upper region of my rib cage. I hear a squishy thumping noise coming from the speakers. I’m assuming that this swishing noise is the sound of my heart pumping.

The echocardiogram takes about twenty minutes. Afterward, Dr. Koolaee tells me the verdict. “Your heart looks good. It shows a lot of improvement and progression since last time, which is really great. All the physical activity and fitness that you have been doing since you left the hospital has strengthened your heart.”

“So that means I have your approval to go to Kona?” I ask.

“Yes, but as long as you promise not to overdo it. If you feel any signs of strain on your heart or lungs, any strain at all, stop right then and there. But from what I’ve seen here today, your heart looks good. I wish you the best of luck and I can’t wait to hear how it goes.”

I can’t thank him enough.

He tells me he has only one request.

“Of course, what is it?”

“Could you bring me back a T-shirt from Hawaii?”

We walk out together to the waiting room. My parents appear nervous, but that instantly changes when they hear his prognosis: all systems go!

As soon as I get home, I call the Ironman’s Peter Henning who says that the next step will be completing a half-Ironman triathlon. He suggests the Whirlpool Steelhead 70.3 Triathlon in Benton Harbor, Michigan, which takes place on August 5, 2007, and is little more than two weeks away.

Uh-oh. That doesn’t give me much time to train. But I keep these doubts to myself. Peter then says that one of the Ironman gear sponsorship managers will call me on Monday.

When I hang up, I consider what I must now do. One hour a day on the stationary bike or treadmill is not going to be enough for a 70.3-mile race. I’m not worried about the open-water aspect of the triathlon because of my background in swimming. My main concern is the bike. As for the final segment of the race, the half-marathon run, well, I’m just going to have to give everything I have left to push through that third leg. But what does this really mean? I am in no shape to jog, let alone
run
more than a few miles. I wonder what 13.1 miles feel like anyway. Will my legs give out before the finish? I guess I won’t know until I try.

So I start my training for a triathlon with an hourlong run on the treadmill, then an hour on the stationary bike, followed by thirty minutes of additional treadmill running. I’m totally beat afterward. My body is toast. If I’m spent from only two and a half hours of training, how in the world am I going to be able to complete a 70.3-mile triathlon? This is ridiculous. I am grossly illprepared and undertrained to do a triathlon, let alone a half-Ironman in two weeks. Yet what feverishly spurs me on is that vision of myself on life support in the ICU. If I had made it through that hell barely clinging to life, just how tough could a triathlon be in comparison? On the other hand, there’s only so much I can ask of my body. Why push my luck?