A Swim, A Bike Ride and a Run all Walk Into a Bar...

In 2009, I ran my first 10k. Although I had always kept myself in pretty decent shape, I had never really been a distance runner of any sort, and this was a fairly big deal for me. Before then, running more than two miles was almost unheard of. Fortunately, a close group of friends were heavily into running and long conditioning and convinced me that I could tackle it with no problem, I just needed to build up to it. I accomplished the race in just under an hour and I felt amazing, knowing that I was nowhere near my potential. Encouraged by my friends, we continued to motivate one another to pursue similar events, mostly 5k's, but eventually, the bar was raised.

My friend Leila had put the bug in my head that a Triathlon was close within my reach. Both being competitive swimmers in another life, she and I each had an upper hand in the third of the event that discourages most racers from participating. In the spring of 2010, Leila propositioned to me the consideration of seriously participating in the Chicago Tri, a race she had participated in at least once before, possibly twice if memory serves correctly. With a bit of thought, I accepted the challenge. Training was about to begin.

For the two months before the race, I was putting myself through a fairly rigorous training schedule. Five days a week, I built myself up to either swimming a full mile in the open waters of Lake Erie, biking 15 miles along the Cuyahoga Valley Towpath or running between 3-6 miles between the neighborhoods of Cleveland proper. Three of those days, I did two circuits of training. One in the morning, one in the afternoon, or sometimes even doing both consecutively. I can't say that I kept this disciplined schedule 100% of the time, but I did my best. With the exception of life occasionally getting in the way, this was my life for a full 60 days before the race. I felt myself getting stronger and more resistant to fatigue. I hadn't felt this good in years.

On August 27th, following a short detour to attend my high school best friend's wedding in Youngstown, Leila and I loaded up our bikes and headed west towards Chicago. Six hours later, we checked into The Palmer House Hilton Hotel, dropped off our bags and walked a few blocks down Michigan Ave. to check into registration for the race. Excited, buzzing and anxious, it wasn't until here that I actually became a bit overwhelmed. For the first time, I saw a photo of the immense crowds that were lined up in heats for the starting line along the lake's promenade. It was just...intense. I stared at that photo for a good five minutes thinking to myself, "What the hell did I get myself into?" Surprisingly, being in that line itself is only a fraction as intimidating as the photo turned out to be. Or maybe by that time I had just gotten myself into a much deeper mental zone of preparation.

Following registration and a bit of wandering around the pre-race expo, Leila and I carbed ourselves up by heading a few blocks down Monroe to the Italian Village, a convenient cluster of restaurants that offered endless options for pasta and bread, a pre-race meal requirement that would help us efficiently store our energy for the next day's events. We chose the basement venue La Cantina Enoteca, a restaurant modeled after a Tuscan wine cellar and decorated with large, built-in fish tanks, narrow aisles and tucked-away booths. As we gobbled down enormous plates of linguine, lasagna, garlic bread and gnocchi, there evolved a growing fatigue between us that I had begun to sense almost immediately after registration. It was if our bodies and minds were sensing the culmination of all we had trained for and began to force us into automatic shutdown for the evening. We both recognized the signs and after paying the bill and taking a few minutes to explore the rest of the "village," we headed down the street for a few minutes to take in some fresh air and calm our nerves. This helped immensely, as summer night-life in Chicago thrived around us. Less than an hour later, we were back in our room, preparing our equipment and necessary clothing with our racing numbers to store in the transition zone during the race. Lights out was at 10:00 sharp. Exhausted, I had absolutely no trouble drifting off into sleep.

By 5:15am, Leila and I were on our way out the door, joining the army of silent bikers making their way down Michigan and Monroe Avenues to prepare their spot in the transition zone. My heat was supposed to be in the water at 6:38 for a 6:39am start. With about an hour to spare, , we sat on the hill after we had made our necessary morning preparations and watched as the Chicago Triathlon kicked off, the eastern dawn breaching the surface of Lake Michigan on the horizon. Thousands upon thousands of people were lined up on the promenade, recognizable by heat by the color of their swim cap. Knowing that in a few short minutes I would be among their ranks was surprisingly calming to me at that point in time. I wasn't nervous anymore, just anxious to begin. I felt completely and utterly ready...and the next thing I knew, we were in line, inching our way up to the drop point. Leila's start time was about five heats after mine and as I approached the scaffolding, we wished each other good luck and she disappeared behind me, swallowed completely by the crowd.

Swim: .75k. I remember it like this: I was treading water, shoulder to shoulder with about 100 other men my age for about 30 seconds before the gun went off. Planking my body, I erupted into a strong front crawl, only to get immediately kicked in the face by the swimmer in front of me. Numbed by adrenaline, I eased to my right and found myself passing around him. I had a half mile to go and with every stroke, the density of the crowd dissipated. Soon I found myself able to freely swim at full stride without a single hindrance of the swimmers around me. The water was crystal clear and I remember thinking it odd that I could almost reach down and grab the columns of seaweed that was rising from the rocky bottom of the marina below me. If I grew tired, I would switch to breaststroke, but for no more than 10 strokes before switching back to crawl again. I never broke my pace and I kept my eye on the finish line the entire time, even passing those in the heat ahead of me and pushing myself harder than I ever had in the water before. Next thing I know, I'm rounding the buoy and climbing the scaffolding into the Chicago Yacht Club. I had a quarter mile run to the transition zone to prepare for the biking event. My legs felt like gelatin. I never ran full sprint directly after a distance swim before...I wish I had.

Bike: 22k. My helmet was on and after a quick four minutes in the transition zone, I was mounted on my bike and headed north up upper Lake Shore Drive. Well, actually...it wasn't my bike. Just days before, someone had broken into my garage and stolen a number of things, including the bike I was preparing to use in the Triathlon. Panicked, I put out a call on Facebook to ask if any of my friends in Chicago or Cleveland would be kind enough to loan me their bike for the weekend. More than enough answered, but it was my friend Jeff that really came through. He lent me his finely tuned and hardly used road bike, which I only had a day to train on as I was used to riding a hybrid at this point. Almost immediately, I could feel the difference. Within a few minutes, I was riding along the Parkway, the fresh morning sun only inches above the horizon line of Lake Michigan, with complete confidence and efficiently shifting my gears to match the slight inclines ahead of me. Six and a half miles in, I hit the turnaround and pedaled back south towards downtown Chicago. Less than a mile after that, I saw Leila, still northbound, pass me on my left. I dug into my toe grips and picked up speed. In what seemed like a fraction of the time that I took me to complete the first half of the bike route, I followed the signs down the ramp and found myself pulling back into the transition zone to prepare myself for the final leg of the race; a 5k run.

Run: 5k. It wasn't 100 feet into the run where I silently uttered my first "uh-oh." My body was fatigued beyond anything I had ever experienced before. The lactic acid in my legs felt like I was dragging 50lb dumbbells behind me. Every step was a complete struggle and every breath was a sharp, blinding pain in my side. I tramped, sluggishly down the hill and across Grant Park where just 90 minutes before, Leila and I were sitting, watching the beginning of the race kick off. Suddenly, as my feet found pavement and I hit the concrete walkway that led past Buckingham Fountain and around the John G. Shedd Aquarium, I amazingly rediscovered my stride. The pain and sluggishness disappeared. I was able to quicken my pace. My breathing returned to its normal rhythm. I hit a quick turnaround and headed down the hill and towards the finish line, which was growing louder with each and every step I pushed myself. Soon, just as I hit the three mile mark, I could see the finish. I was almost there, and whatever I had left inside me, I used. I broke into a full out sprint and crossed the finish line strong, hearing them announce my name as my pace slowed into a tepid walk...the first moment of negative momentum that I had allowed myself in nearly one hour and forty five minutes.

About four minutes later, I watched Leila cross the finish line as well. After a much deserved and sweaty congratulations, we both collapsed on the shady grass behind the food court, willing our bodies to recover just enough so that we could find the strength to eat a full meal provided to us by the race committee.

The rest of the morning, we spent exploring the extra curricular activities that the event had to offer. We marveled at the the competitors of the International Race (which was over twice the length that we competed in). We listened to a few bands get up and perform for the energized crowds. We ate, took pictures and finally, as noon was steadily approaching, gathered together our things and marched our way back towards the hotel for long showers and a change of clothes. As we left Chicago and made our way back to Cleveland, the events of that morning seemed to suddenly slip towards the back of my mind, coming to me in what seemed like a dream. It was almost surreal to me, as I pulled into my driveway a mere eight hours later, to think that only that morning, I was competing in the Chicago Triathlon with some of the best tri-athletes in the world. As I look back at that day, I can say that with sincerity that the bug has been contracted. There will be many more to come. Due to the encouragement of a good friend, my Triathlon experience has only just begun.

Blowing Out the Candles at 13,000 Feet

"We stand upon the brink of a precipice. We peer into the abyss -- we grow sick and dizzy. Our first impulse is to shrink from the danger. Unaccountably we remain...And this fall -- this rushing annihilation...for this very cause do we now the most vividly desire it. And because our reason violently deters us from the brink, therefore do we the most impetuously approach it."

-Edgar Allen Poe, The Imp of the Perverse

I have a strange fear of heights. I discovered this at a young age, when visiting Colorado with my parents. We were crossing the Royal Gorge Bridge near Cañon City, a 1260 foot suspension span that sits 1053 feet above the Arkansas River, when my dad turned around and found me climbing the railing. I remember this vividly, the sudden and nearly uncontrollable urge to fly. The empty space below me was hypnotizing. I wanted to feel the wind against my face, the weightlessness of the fall. Mortality meant nothing to me in that moment...flying almost felt natural.

The laws of gravity spell out a different story, however. Without the aid of a parachute, squirrel suit, or a fantastic pair of condor wings, I most certainly would've gone splat over the rocks below. No more Brian. This is a bizarre form of acrophobia that plagues a fraction of its sufferers. Not necessarily labeled as an acute "phobia," it is still categorized as such. Each time I approach a high precipice, I experience it. Through a series of disciplined relaxation techniques and meditation, I've learned to control it.

Since high school, my only viable solution of releasing this urge was to experience the thrill of skydiving. After my 18th birthday, I started calling signs on the side of the road advertising classes and lessons. I would collect brochures. I became obsessed. Unfortunately, money always got in the way. As soon as I had enough saved up, I would need to dip into it for emergencies. My car needed fixed. College applications sucked me dry. Classroom books and studio supplies dominated my expenses. And then, during my freshman year of college, a few of my design friends and I decided to plan a skydiving excursion near Cincinnati. The week before we were to go, my grandma passed. Without hesitation, I bailed on the trip and headed back to Youngstown instead to attend the funeral and help my family transition her possessions.

Years later, when I was about to turn 30, my girlfriend asked me what I wanted for my birthday.
     "Skydiving," I responded.
     "...Not a chance," was her curt reply.
I know now that she was not being cold-hearted or despondent, she was just worried about me. Again and again, she would ask me the same question, upon which I always gave the same response. Redundancy did not change her mind. Hardly the thrill-seeker, she was equally afraid of seeing me take a risk that would in any way shape or form put my life in danger. So instead, she bought me jacket.

Two years later, a good friend surprised me on my 32nd birthday with two tickets to go skydiving down by Wooster, Ohio. Ecstatic, we scheduled the jump for mid-August, two weeks after my birthday. The days couldn't go by soon enough.

We arrived at the airstrip on a hot, muggy, Sunday morning and immediately signed our release papers before heading into a small, air-conditioned trailer for training. It was here we would receive our jumping equipment and get a rundown of what was soon to follow. Literally, 45 minutes later, we were boarding the plane and straddling our seats before taking off into the bright, azure sky. As we climbed higher and higher, the humid moisture in the air dissipated and soon we were circling a chilly 13,000 feet above the cornfields of central Ohio. With my instructor assuring me that we were efficiently strapped together in tandem, my turn to jump suddenly arrived. Finding myself at the threshold of the door, the empty void of air expanding below me, I tilted my head back, peered wide-eyed into the blinding sun, and lept.

I can only describe the sensation as one described it to me; "As if being suspended upon a column of air, the sensation of falling being replaced by that of flying - the thrilling, addicting effect of terminal velocity."

I fell 13,000 feet and I celebrated every last inch of it. Overwhelmed with excitement, I laughed and cheered the entire four minute trip down, finally knowing full well what it must be like to fly. This was one of the top experiences of my entire life and I hope to soon repeat it, as I'm certain I will...perhaps this time, with the Cascade Mountains overlooking my descent.

The Bone-Norman Caves

In early 2009, a friend of mine invited me and two of our other friends to go caving in West Virginia into a hole in the ground called Rehoboth Church. About two weeks before we were scheduled to embark, she tore her ACL in a skiing accident, hence our trip was postponed until she was able to fully recover. About a year and a half later, she introduced me to some of the members in her Cleveland Grotto club and new spelunking location options suddenly formed in our minds. Because of a growing epidemic of WNS (white-nosed syndrome) that was mysteriously spreading amongst the bat population world wide, many caves were closed to the public by the NSS until a cure or cause of the disease was determined. Any cave exploration would have to be limited to a system not affected by WNS. Rehoboth Church was out.

About two weeks later, I got an email informing me that two of the guys I met at the Cleveland Grotto club, Vic and George, were interested in taking a short weekend trip down to a cave called Bone-Norman, which was located in West Virgina, deep within the rural landscape of Greenbriar county. We left after work on Friday, July 9, meeting each other at Vic's house down in Hudson, Ohio, where George took over driving responsibilities as we embarked south towards the Appalachian wilderness of central West Virginia. Nearly six hours later, we checked into a motel about 15 miles away from the entrance of Norman cave. Leaving most of our gear in the car, we fell asleep early, ready and rested for the underground adventures the next day would produce.

Consisting of two main sections, Bone-Norman cave boasts over 14 miles of surveyed passageways. The Bone section is a mostly dry cave with a few formations and lots of dry, dusty clay silt, whereas the Norman section, connected to Bone by a narrow passageway nicknamed "The Devil's Pinch," is an active cave with stream passages, waterfalls, and a wide array of beautiful, intense formations, many of which we were to see that day.

George parked his car along the side of a dirt road, just out of sight of a nearby farm, buried within the folds of the rolling hills around us. Shortly after throwing on our jumpers, helmets, lights and gloves, Vic led us up a small deer path towards the side of a towering cliff face. Minutes later, we were introduced to an eight-foot wide horizontal gash between the rocks, just wide enough for each of us to squeeze through, one by one. Once inside the cave, you emerge into a long descending corridor absent of any form of light, it's floor consisting of loose rock and rolling ankle-breakers, and our way illuminated only by the lamps attached to our heads.

Once at the bottom, the way seems to be shut, with no where to go but back up. However, as Vic pointed out, the corridor held one tiny secret; a small opening in the ground, just off to the right side that drops about 20 feet into the top of an underground stream. As the four of us climbed down into the small room, Vic pointed out that we were now sitting on top of a waterfall. Leading us around the left side and down another scramble to the bottom, we suddenly found ourselves submerged waist-deep in a running stream. Turning back, our lights shone up to where we were just standing, only to find in the place of pitch darkness, a beautiful running waterfall filling the room. It took everything in me to turn away and continue on further down the passage.

The next quarter mile through the flowstone consisted of a long, low, limestone passage that forced us to crouch and wade knee-deep through a running stream about twenty feet across and pocked with potholes before dropping into a wide, shallow lake. We would run into many of these throughout the day, numerous black pools laying hidden deep within the earth, each one offering some new kind of rock formation and geological treasure. Finding a small passage leading upwards, we ascended into a large, dry room. After an hour or so of crossing through narrow and wide passageways that snaked back and forth over the stream, Vic led us into a medium-sized room that displayed a deposit phenomenon simply called "bacon," a label that visually describes it perfectly. These rippling formations within the cavern were further enhanced by the jaw-dropping sparkle of billions of shards of quartz, which, being exposed to our lamps, blazed in front of us with utter brilliance.

It was here that, by complete chance, we happened to come across a time-capsule of sorts, a 30-year old series of love letters from each half of a love-lorn pair, who seemed to bury their commitment to one another in hopes that it would only strengthen their bond. We did read a part of what they wrote, but in feeling that we were infringing on some form of sacred and private vow, we returned the letters to their hiding place exactly in the way we found them. I don't remember what exactly was written, but I do remember thinking that they were both beautifully written. Hopefully, their owners will one day return for them and find them safe and sound, just as they had intended after all these years.

As we passed out of that room, we soon found ourselves emerging into a completely different world unlike any we had passed through before. I can only describe it as if it was like we were suddenly walking on the surface of the moon, the cavescape taking on a pocked, alien-like appearance. The corridor was long, followed a wide arc, and the ceiling once again dropped to a height that forced us into crouching positions. However, the swiss cheese floor below us split the corridor down its middle, forming an eerie chasm, probably twelve feet wide and close to seventy feet deep, as far as we knew. After about 200 yards of crawling along the ledge just left of the chasm, Vic (whose friends have nicknamed him "the squirrel," due to his agile and scurrying techniques of cave navigation) suddenly shone his light down the chasm, informed us that this was the way through, and dropped out of sight. As I peered down after him, I noticed that the drop was interrupted by a series of ledges, allowing us to maneuver down it's walls four to five feet at a time. Following Vic's lead, we all made it down to the small gorge's sandy bottom floor and followed that into a large, enormous room...the largest we had seen so far.

It was here that we decided to take rest once again, shut off our lights and absorb the silence and pitch black of the cave. It was a similar experience to immersing yourself within a desensitization chamber. Everything went away. Aside from the cold rocks pressing against my back as I lay on the breakaway, looking up into the ceiling that I was no longer confident was actually there, I felt nothing, saw nothing and heard nothing, save for the quiet breathing of my caving companions. I felt as if there were no other place like this in the world. We were alone and lost to the bowels of the earth, and just for a moment, there was a sense of extreme peace. As my friend and I seemed to have shared this realization together, Vic and George however seemed to grow restless after a few moments and turned their lights back on, suggesting we move on with our exploration if we were to expect to exit the cave in time for dinner.

We did move forward a bit more, finding ourselves to emerge into side passages of the extremely dry Bone section of the cave. We didn't go far here, but I was fascinated at how different our surroundings were in comparison to the wet and slippery Norman cave that we just left from. I remember a long, tall and thin corridor with sandy floors, interlocking, teeth-like ledges jutting out from the walls above us and holes in the floor as large as a volkswagons, subtly dropping down into the unknown. Not being confident of how to navigate that side of the cavern, Vic marked this as the point where we turn around and head back home. Being the rookie in the group, I was asked if I felt comfortable to lead us towards the way out, a challenge I was more than happy to take on. It was here, I felt free. I led us home at a fairly brisk pace, scrambling over the rocks and ledges, up through the chasm walls and along the long waterway corridor that led us back to the majestic waterfall that introduced us to the awe of Norman cave.

A few minutes later, following a near slip that could've cost me the function of my legs, we ascended from the observation room above the waterfall, into the wide rock-filled corridor that would lead us up and out into the light of day. Letting the others move ahead, I held back, taking the time to set up a few long-exposed shots with my camera, none of which came out quite the way I had wanted them to. After a few moments of experimentation, I quickly scrambled up the breakaway and emerged into the lush, green expanse and fresh air of the Appalachian mountains. It was an adjustment, to suddenly be exposed to color as opposed to the desaturated world of the inside of a cave. It actually took me a few seconds to process what I was seeing. Just a few minutes later, however, we were back at George's truck, changing into dry clothes and looking forward to the hot soothing showers our hotel would soon offer us.

That night we enjoyed a relaxed dinner at Applebee's, partaking in a few cocktails laced with stories reminiscing the events of the day. It was a great time to decompress, to sit back, chill out and even discuss what our next underground adventure would entail. Exhausted and back at the hotel, we all experienced an ideal, full night of sound sleep. Fully rested, we partook in a quick breakfast at a local Bob Evans before jumping back on the road towards Cleveland, Ohio. Seven or so hours later, our trip was at an end, our cars were unpacked and each of us separated back towards our homes when I suddenly became aware of the sheer amount of laundry I had ahead of me, as 90% of the clothes I took with me were caked in mud. With a smile, I spread them out on the lawn and took out the garden hose, knowing that rinsing away the filth would have absolutely no effect on the memories that I took away from that weekend...not a single one.

Bang.

How I spent my last day in Arizona presented me with two options, according to my Uncle Dave. 1.) Pick a trail to hike up into his hunting grounds outside of Phoenix, or 2.) Shoot guns in the desert. ...I've been hiking before. Guns it is.

I'm by no means a gun aficionado. In fact, I can't remember the last time I really shot a gun. Hell, it may have been with my uncle the last time I was in Arizona. Fact is, they make me uncomfortable, but I have nothing but respect for them. I always knew that something could go wrong so easily, that, with the smallest bit of carelessness, life with a gun would change in an instant. That's not something I take lightly.

We arrived at the target range, a patch of land about 30 miles north of Phoenix that is littered with old television sets, large sheets of painted plywood and run down pieces of furniture, all riddled with bullets. David picked a spot where, upon shooting, any stray bullet would bury itself within a small hill behind our target. I walked about 30 yards out and propped up a makeshift target that someone left behind as my cousins Jon and Danny loaded a few of the weapons we had at our disposal. Dave however, walked up to me, handed me a 9mm and simply said, "Shoot the demons out of it."

You don't need to know precisely what that means, per say...just that the last bullet that left this gun did in fact carry a demon with it, and my uncle was asking me to exorcise every last remnant of what it left behind. So I did. And Danny did. And Jon did. And then I did again. And then, without so much of a word, Dave tucked it away in a small metal box and slid it back into the truck. I wouldn't be surprised if that would be the last time that gun is ever shot.

A Glock. A .45mm. A shotgun. A rifle. An AK-47...I'm not going to lie; shooting a semi-automatic AK-47 makes you feel like John Rambo, like a real man. Like, I wanted to sign my name in the side of a mountain with bullets and claim it as my own. This 7.62 x 39mm caliber assault rifle can shoot 600 rounds per minute and has an effective range of 437 yards. And, it was designed by the Russians. Bad. Ass.

Two hours and three empty boxes of ammo later, we were looking at what was left of the semi-identifiable furniture that we made our targets for the day. Packing up our stuff, we headed back to the house to engage in an enormous meal. Some of Jon and Danny's friends stopped by and before long, the house was saturated in the scent of roasting meats, savory enough to draw them in by the truckload. Soon enough, after a few glasses of wine, three heaping plates of food and a lot of laughter, we all slipped into our respective food comas and soon found ourselves retiring for the night. I don't even remember putting my head on the pillow.

The next morning, as tradition has defined my visits to Phoenix, I woke up just before the sunrise and quietly left the house, exited through the back gate into the Phoenix Mountain Preserve and quietly hiked up the three-tiered trail to the top of Shaw Butte, which not only casts a shadow over their backyard, but offers a beautiful view of the entirety of Phoenix as well. As the sun rose in the east, I descended off the back of the mountain and into the calm of the desert. The trail looped back around through the valley, right back towards where I started.

I was awake, invigorated and I hadn't been stung by a scorpion nor did I cross paths with a rattlesnake. It was a great start to the day, upon then which I said goodbye to Ellen, Dave, Jon and Danny before they all left for work and school. I had a bit of time to relax before heading to the airport for my flight, so I decided to spend it as wisely as I could; by relaxing beside the pool with Cougar.

Later that morning, I found myself looking out the window upon the city of Phoenix, not knowing quite for sure when my next visit will be. My cousin Jon, is now in his sophmore year of college of Gonzaga University in Spokane. Danny is currently looking around the country at different universities, but I have a feeling he'll end up attending the same school as Jon. Soon, it'll be hard to get everyone back together again so easily outside of holidays and mid-summer during their breaks. ...But I suppose that's what makes it worth it.