It’s only 70 degrees Fahrenheit, but the sun on my face and skull cap makes it feel much hotter. Blake stands beside me with a GoPro Hero 8 mounted to his head strap. William is behind me with his team. Lois and Carl are in front of me in bright green. His Iron Man triathlon shirt tells you he is no ordinary gentleman. I don’t belong here. What on earth have I done? I fear I have made a big mistake and I’m kind of stuck now. I don’t belong here among these trained athletes. Standing alone.

 

 

Three years. Three arduous years. You can get an associate’s degree in that time or an accelerated bachelors. If you work hard enough and are dedicated enough it can happen. Maybe something else can happen. Some of you need absolutely zero encouragement. You are athletes coming back from OHS and you set the example for the rest of us to follow. You look forward to not only running a half marathon, but maybe even start training to do your 1st marathon, or maybe an ultra. Maybe you’re hiking all the 4000-foot peaks or looking forward to shoot trap again and keeping your club or national ranking.

 

 

But what about the rest of us?

 

 

We’re dads and moms. We’re grand ma and grand pa. We put our lives and hobbies on hold to have families and raise children. Then we’re slapped in the face with OHS and left wondering what kind of life is left before us. What kind of humble existence will we live for the rest of our days? Three years ago, I sat recovering at home with doubts and uncertainties about my future. I wondered what kind of pitiful husband and father I had become. How could I care and provide for my family?

 

 

Then I hatched a ridiculously stupid plan. What if I could run a 5k? Just a simple foot race to show my surgeons, my doctors, my nurses and technicians and all my therapists that they didn’t waste their time saving me.  Weeks later I would suffer failure and return to the hospital, my dreams temporarily dashed. Then I would return home still with problems and need yet a third procedure on my heart. The list of failures was piling up and my view grew dark and dim – about as dim as my future. Then the third surgery and success. My dream was suddenly a possibility, until alas as I was finally training to be a runner my knee failed – courtesy of that years ago motorcycle racing accident. Reconstructive surgery cannot undo all damage that we subject our bodies to. So while I could walk, I would never run. The final failure. The last dark curtain upon my vision. My dream was stolen from me, and I watched it disappear before my eyes.

 

 

I was almost crying as I left my orthopedic surgeon’s office. He said I will never run.

 

 

I was saved by a friend who told me to switch to cycling and I’ve been blessed with success. I became a cyclist, long distance cyclist, and century rider. Dreams were becoming a reality and my heart, though stitched up, was filled with joy. But I never got my 5k. However, success breeds success and sometimes success fuels other harebrained ideas. What if I ran a 5k with a stitched-up heart and a stitched-up knee? What if I ran in the dirt to give my knee a fighting chance and took breaks along the way? The break could be something far harder, an obstacle of some sort. Rope climb. Monkey bars. Ladder climb. Ice water plunge. Molasses like mud pit. Anything but knee pounding pavement. Make it harder. Make it soul crushing. Make it something to prey on every possible fear and discomfort – but give my knee a break.

 

 

I walk a 5k three or four nights a week. I can bicycle 50 miles without batting an eyelash. When I train, 100-mile ride is no problem. So, I started this ridiculous regimen. Swim laps to train other muscle groups not built-up during walking and cycling. Hike quickly up the steepest local hills to build muscle and then burn thighs on the way down. Do pull ups and free hangs to build grip and lift strength and callous my hands. Plunge my hands into a bucket of ice water for 60 seconds then do the monkey bars at the local school playground so I could learn to grip when I could feel no grip and my wet hands wanted to slip. Figure out my perfect swing to move rung to rung. Wear sneakers with orthotic insoles and a knee brace while doing hundreds of jumping jacks and jump rope – upon doubled up yoga mats to take the shock from my tender knee.

 

 

It. Was. Ridiculous. But I did it anyway.

 

 

Three years. Three very long years, that have gone by in a flash. I trained. I worked. Through rain. Through snow. Through heat and humidity. Walking. Hiking. Cycling. Climbing. Swimming. Bowflexing and free-weights.

 

 

Three years ago, my dream was stolen from me. I finally stole it back. I got my 5k, but as a 5k from Hell. I ran a Tough Mudder. Up and down the ski slopes of Stratton Mountain Vermont. Over vertical climbs like Ladder to Hell, under barbed wire in Taste of Mud. Slogging through mud pits and mounds in Mud Mile. Plunging into ice baths like Artic Enema and then facing the upper body challenge of Just the Tip where slat boards are your monkey bars and trailer hitch balls are your pegs in peg boards.

 

 

Then the Berlin Walls. Flat faced with no grip surface. The black 8-foot wall looms large when you’ve reached the end of your 5k. Run straight. Leap high and grip the top. Keep running up and throw a shoulder over. Let that pull your body over and you’ll make it to the other side. Then to break your soul further, as you near the finish the Mudderhorn stands tall with its three-story open netting climb. Just to let you know this is not an ordinary 5k run.

 

 

I wanted to let every surgeon, every doctor, every nurse, every tech and every therapist know that they didn’t waste their time saving me. Three years ago, I looked at my future, but could barely see past the foot of my bed. Today I’m healing. Not from surgery, but from the torture I voluntarily put my body through last weekend. If you’re an athlete, you don’t need encouragement. You are already planning to crush your previous achievements, but if you are someone else like me. Wondering what possible life could be waiting and what possible future exists, I want to tell you that for many of us, there is more out there. Life is waiting for you to hit it hard with your new heart. It’s begging for you to come at it with all you’ve got.

 

 

I’ve attached a link to my daughter’s video. The run is routed through the village condos and shops as it comes down the mountain and nears the end. (Turn the volume down because Dee Snider is going to tell you, “I gave you yesterday, I don’t need it, because today is MINE!”) I was adopted by a team from Massachusetts. I was right. I didn’t belong there, among the trained athletes standing alone. I belonged with my new friends and teammates. Crushing our goals together.

https://www.facebook.com/1238300259/videos/888732272519649/

 

 

I got my 5k.

 

 

I finally got it. Every drop of sweat. Every tear. Every iced muscle. Every blister – was worth it. I’m alive and I did it. I’m not bragging. I’m not an athlete. I’m just a dad, but I’m telling you it’s possible. If you are new to this OHS life, understand that we all know it is scary. I was scared too; scared of the surgery and frightened of my future. I’m here to tell you, you can do this – and I can’t wait to hear that you did even better than me.

 

And for the rest of you. I didn’t get here alone. Every story of success and every word of encouragement meant more than you know. Thank you for the stories you share and the caring and helpful attitudes you display to one another. I carried photos of every person who fueled me, taped to my chest, over my stitched-up heart through all the mud, ice, and fire. I only regret that I didn’t have enough room for photos of all of you.