What is the cost of a marathon? For the sponsor, the bill can be anywhere between a couple thousand and hundreds of thousands of dollars. The host will spend money on medals for the runners, vendors, and staff to operate the event, just to name a few details. The expense of the runner isn’t quite as pricy, but just as intricate. Of course, there is the entry fee to participate in the event. There are travel expenses as well as room and board if the race isn’t local. The marathoner can spend months training for a single event and that means time, equipment, and even food. The biggest expenditure is the runner’s energy. While every race starts off on equal ground, the individual prices to get to the starting line may vary. My cost to race was a simple step.
The mountain was called Ljuboten. It was a familiar sight to all the coalition forces operating in Kosovo due to the isolated nature the peak held from the rest of the Sharr mountain range. We came to know her as Mount Duke, though the moniker was never explained. The Duke stood over us at a looming 8,196 feet. He was mighty and we were small. The Germans offered up an opportunity to form a bit of camaraderie with us, the newest NATO members on the block. Known as the Edelweiss, we were given the chance to participate in a mountaineering badge qualification exercise, albeit a little washed down from the real thing. We would climb the highest peak we had available to us in a set amount of time to reach the needed elevation change required. If we succeeded, we would earn the mountaineering badge we saw so many of our German counterparts displaying on their berets. I was familiar with mountains, having grown up around the Blue Ridge Parkway, but I had been a child then and Dad drove to the top where we could gaze at our leisure. Yet here I was, not at the top, and not driving up.
Luckily, we hadn’t started all the way at the bottom. 8,196 feet is a lot to traverse on a slope. Our guide through this process knew of a popular starting point the locals used at a more reasonable location than the feared beginning I had imagined. We drove to a half-way point and began our journey. The true exercise involves a multiday expedition into the high altitudes to earn the mountaineering badge. We did a slightly extravagant mile and a half hike up a steep mountain face. As soldiers who had left behind the body armor, ruck sacks, and heavy gear we were so used to dragging around daily, we assumed this trip was going to be a breeze. We had sunshine and a gentle breeze to really make this trip memorable. The most memorable part ended up being the civilians with their children strolling passed us every time we stopped to catch our breath. Kids were streaking up the mountain while fathers in flip flops waved at us as they climbed ever higher. All we could do was wave back as we sat collecting ourselves in the middle of our own pools of sweat.
I said my entry to a marathon was a simple step. Had I not taken the first step up Mt. Ljuboten, I wouldn’t have taken a second. A third wouldn’t have followed. I wouldn’t have reached the peak in pain. I would have probably finished my deployment out, come home and started the welding program like I had planned. That would have been my future. But I took that simple step, the butterfly effect that initiated the hundreds more that followed.
My arches collapsed on that mountain. More congruously, my arches finished collapsing on that mountain. There was a lot of wear and tear on my feet from my first deployment, to Iraq, that led to the painful result on that mountaintop. Doctors call it Adult Degenerative Foot Disease. The bone structure in my feet had given way at an accelerated rate compared to the normal adult. Climbing a mile and a half up the face of a mountain was simply the straw that broke the camel’s back. I didn’t feel the moment when things started to go bad. There wasn’t a moment where I took a step, heard a *pop* and realized that something was wrong. Everything just started hurting, the way I expected it to do when climbing a mountain. Only, the pain didn’t go away. I was left with a searing pain in every step, as if I were stepping onto a nail every time I put my foot down. I couldn’t walk straight and rolled my ankle to the point I was convinced my foot was going to break off. The only relief I felt was when I sat down, and even then, I could feel a tingle coming in to remind me that my pain wasn’t far away.
It took me a week of stubbornness to finally go to the medical facility at our base. My delay did nothing to worsen my condition. After a set of x-rays determined that the only time I had broken my foot was both a surprise to myself and long before my current problems, I was diagnosed with plantar fasciitis. I was given a prescription of light duty and scorn of my leadership and sent on my way. It would be another seven months before I would get the opportunity to seek medical care again, when we arrived home from the deployment.
I was transferred to a specialty care unit in the army known as the Warrior Transition Battalion, or WTB. It was a unit that had been set up during the Iraqi Campaign to help with the transition of the wounded warriors coming home from the ravages of war. I knew a lot of good soldiers who passed through this unit; I never imagined I would be one. My first diagnosis while at that unit mirrored the one I had received in Kosovo- I simply had plantar fasciitis. I was no doctor, but after seven months of treating my injuries as that, I knew that there was something else wrong. Three long months of fighting back, threats to call Congress, and the intervention of an ombudsman finally got me a second look from the doctor. It didn’t take him ten minutes to admit he had overlooked something and that my injuries were more severe. I was referred to an orthopedic surgeon who was referring me to an orthopedic specialist after only five minutes. That meeting started a two-year process of medical procedures I would have never thought I would go through.
The Army rebuilt my feet. I had bones cut, moved around, resecured with pins and plates, and even a wedge inserted into the top of my foot to recreate an arch. I have lost weight bearing bones and had my calves cut to be extended. I watched as my legs, once shaped by years of pounding dirt, atrophied from lack of use. I was told I would never run again and sat in my room pondering what new life I would be able to make for myself without the full use of something I realized I had used for all my work, sports and leisurely activities.
I was in and out of casts and CAM boots, on crutches and knee scooters. But I was still in the army and they expected me to stay fit. That meant adapting to a form of exercise that matched my new limitations. I discovered the rowing machine, water aerobics and yoga. Simple, easy tasks that I could do and feel like I had accomplished something while staying within my boundaries. I welcomed these with open arms. I liked the idea of just breezing through and checking off all the boxes that made my leadership leave me alone. I wasn’t ready for being introduced to cycling. I balked at the idea and came up with a slew of reasons why; I was standing on both of them. I was reminded of the word “adaptable” with a smile as I was shown a hand cycle and literally placed onto one. It was a machine designed to be powered by the upper body, of which I didn’t have. I had always been a cardio guy, not a gym rat, and the thought of muscling my whole body even a mile seemed laughable.
I was quickly shown the error of my ways, however, and went from completing a four-mile ride to a twelve-mile ride. I continued to advance so that my endurance and speed went up with each ride I took. My instructor was impressed with me and suggested signing up for a marathon and I found myself right back at the beginning before I even got on the bike. I thought the idea of cycling 26.22 miles with my arms was far-fetched. I thought I wouldn’t be able to make it. Once again, I had good people show me just how much I was limiting myself.
I did what I would never have done before I was injured. I did it in a way I would never have been able to do if I hadn’t been injured. I completed a marathon on a handcycle. I crossed the finish line and reveled in my accomplishment. I had ridden this distance many times to train for this moment, but on none of those rides had there been a marked goal such as this. There was an end game to shoot for, and I had hit my target. I couldn’t stand up on my own afterwards, but I didn’t have to. The longevity of sitting in place had caused my legs to become temporarily unresponsive, but there was an entire crowd of people cheering me on and a whole team of support to make sure I could rise from my machine. I knew I had more in me, so I completed another. And then another. Some time went by and I completed a 62.13-mile ride. I used my arms! I learned to love the ride so much that I was gifted my own, custom handcycle to go search out races with. I did just that, and I have raced up and down the coast.
My handcycle is a custom, made to order neon green machine with a carbon fiber frame that costs more than seven thousand dollars. It is built to my body’s measurements and designed to be as streamlined as possible. The cycling outfits are about a hundred. They are not custom fit to me and will let the world know when I decided to indulge in that extra cookie before a ride. It takes a lot of time and energy to train up on a handcycle compared to an upright bicycle because arm muscles aren’t as powerful as leg muscles. Because of this, it is a bigger investment to train for a single race. Traveling to races isn’t easy with a handcycle. Depending on the distance, I can load up the machine into the car and drive to my destination, which also means fuel. I might have to fly though, which means air fair as well as luggage costs for the bike. This also includes an emotional price of trusting the crew I am flying with to properly load the very expensive, very irreplaceable machine into the underbelly of the plane. There could be hotel costs and food for a trip, and time spent for this endeavor. Ultimately, there is the marathon fee to race. My cost to race, however, was a simple step.
No step, no injury. No injury, no handcycle. If I keep plugging that logic into the calculator, it equates to a guy who wasn’t motivated and would never dream to work this hard when he had the ability to do whatever he wanted. I stepped onto a mountain to climb a challenge and stepped off the mountain, but not the challenge. I eventually welcomed the challenge in my own way and began to chase every mile I could to better myself.
No two races are the same. Each one is like a fingerprint and it is easy to distinguish the one from the many. The routes change. The weather changes. The funding and the support can change. All of these add or take away from a good marathon. A good start can lead to a good race because you can feel motivated. A bad start can set the precedent for a bad finish. Twenty-six miles is a long way to go to battle the inner demons in your head while you are in the middle of a race. On a handcycle, it can be that much harder. Every turn of my arms matters. Every ounce of energy is spent and must be budgeted, in advanced, for twenty-six miles.
I stick out on the handcycle, which is a challenge of its own. I get extra cheers as I go by because people see me as someone putting in the extra effort. I cycle in the disabled category and they may not know why, but they do know as soon as I get into my machine. So, I can never stop. I have a responsibility to keep going all the more because people are cheering me on. I feel every slight incline in the road and they all feel like Mount Ljuboten as I cycle up what feels like flat terrain to everyone else. I can’t stop because then I concede that I am broken. I concede to myself that I am truly disabled if I am unable to use my arms and my legs. But I don’t concede. There are people cheering. And I am one of them.
It became personal. I knew that I was broken. The Japanese call it kintsukuroi. To repair with gold. They repair broken pottery with precious metals and then celebrate the beauty of the item for having already been broken. I became kintsukuroi. I saw the scars that cover my lower extremities. I felt the screws protruding underneath my skin. I am always in some level of pain. But I am all the better for having been broken. I have been challenged when I felt life was easy. I was given purpose when I felt there was none. I respect every step I take now for I know the effort involved.
Writing in Cadence 
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