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Finding Ultra

Page 16

by Rich Roll


  So with that insight to fortify me, and buttressed by the encouragement of Julie, I decided to resume training, with a keen eye on returning to Ultraman. No longer would the goal be just to finish, but, rather, to contend.

  Meanwhile, I was starting to get noticed. Astonishingly, Men’s Fitness magazine named me as one of their “25 Fittest Men in the World”—celebrating me as an everyman triumph. It was heady stuff indeed to be grouped with such athletic luminaries as Rafael Nadal, Usain Bolt, and LeBron James. The piece prompted a slew of interview requests. Even The Dr. Oz Show called. And Dr. Sanjay Gupta gave me a shout-out on CNN, noting my plant-based diet as a key to my athletic accomplishments. How is this happening to me? I thought. It all seemed surreal. Maybe the universe had a plan for me after all.

  Just as precipitously, though, the rug was pulled out from underneath me. And I almost lost everything. Forever.

  Just outside of Ojai, I was pedaling strong, about 70 miles into my first 130-mile ride of the season, energized by the power I was feeling in my legs and pondering excitedly what the season might bring. Then something went wrong. I have no memory of what exactly transpired, but my next recollection was of slowly awakening from a total blackout. Tangled in the spokes of my bike, bloodied and unable to move, I opened my eyes to peer up through blurred vision at two elderly ladies coming to my aid. What happened?

  “Call an ambulance!” commanded a voice.

  A crash, I realized. But how? Somehow I’d gone over my handlebars—hit an unforeseen bump in the road, perhaps. Or simply lost my balance. It doesn’t take much. But I couldn’t remember anything. And then everything went black.

  My next impression was coming to in the hospital, confused by my surroundings and searching for clues until I slowly realized it was Julie and my then five-year-old daughter, Mathis, leaning over my bedside. Squinting up at them, I began tearing up, a frail sense of mortality coming into focus and overpowering my emotions. I’d suffered a severe concussion, but my disfigured face had borne the brunt of the impact. With my nose mangled and my lips split wide open and monstrously swollen, Mathis had to turn away. To this day, I still have no feeling in my lower lip. But I was lucky, the doctor said. I could have easily snapped my neck.

  Convalescing in that hospital bed, I couldn’t help but once again call into question the course I’d set for myself. Physically I was broken. Financial struggles continued to plague me. I was at a crossroads professionally. And spiritually, I suddenly felt lost.

  Taking note of my distress, Julie leaned down, kissed my forehead, and presented me with a question. The question.

  “So if that was it, would you be satisfied with how you’d pursued your life?”

  I grew quiet, digging deep for a response. The bizarre mash-up of unexpected public accolades and private struggles exacerbated my disorientation. On the one hand, I seemed to be risking death—though prior to the crash I hadn’t thought of it that way. Yet when the crash occurred, there was no doubt that I was doing what I loved. As I lay there, looking into Julie’s eyes, I knew the answer.

  “Yes.”

  Most spouses probably would have pleaded for a return to a more secure existence: life with a nine-to-five husband, two weeks of annual vacation, and barbecues on the weekend. There’s nothing inherently wrong with that. But that’s not Julie. And I wasn’t ready to accept that either.

  “I’m so happy to hear you say that,” she murmured.

  Because she understood what I was only then coming to realize—that safety isn’t just an illusion, it’s a cop-out. I know it sounds trite, but there’s simply nothing like a near-death experience to remind one of the impermanence of everything. And living imprisoned by fear only to die with regret over dreams postponed was a life neither of us was interested in.

  The crash was a blessing, forging in me a redoubled determination to push my body to new levels of strength and endurance. And as the story of my middle-aged transformation began going viral, I realized that it was inspiring positive change in others. That especially came into focus in July 2009 when I was asked by Dr. Sanjay Gupta’s producer Danielle Dellorto to write a short article on my metamorphosis for CNN.com. No big deal, I thought. But to my amazement, the piece became the most e-mailed health story on the network’s website for a few days running. Overnight, my little blog—which I’d thought of as a private confessional—went from getting close to zero traffic to garnering more than 200,000 unique page views. But what changed everything for me were the 400-plus e-mails I received from people all over the world, many of them intimate accounts of their own health struggles.

  Newly focused, Julie and I—and even the kids—cut extraneous expenses and used creativity to meet our needs. The expensive Volvo was replaced by an old Ford Bronco and a dinged-up minivan. Whole Foods excursions were discarded in favor of purchasing foods in bulk and from local farmer’s markets. Julie began selling her photographs and paintings, and little Mathis even offered up her proud creative offerings. Increasingly, as a family, we began to tackle obstacles more as a fun board game than an ominous burden, with the overall tone set largely by Julie.

  What’s the worst thing that can happen? she’d ask. We’re healthy. In love. Living life according to our own rules. And that’s all that matters. Everything else is just stuff.

  Putting this philosophy into action worked. Each successive week I broke new ground in training, surpassing every strength and fitness benchmark I’d set the previous year. And as summer turned to fall, our fragile economic state seemed on the mend. Perhaps most remarkable of all, without taking my eye off my primary mission, my law practice actually expanded. Come October, I was ready, focused, and prepared for the next opportunity to push the boundaries of endurance.

  The Doppelganger. A victim of heart disease, my grandfather Richard Spindle, a champion swimmer who narrowly missed a 1928 Olympics berth, died far too young. As his namesake and one who has carried on his athletic legacy, I feel his presence with me everywhere I go.

  Too Sexy for My Eye Patch. Cross-eyed since birth and weak throughout my early years, I was never projected to be much of an athlete, let alone an Ultraman.

  Where’s the Power Meter on This Thing? Here, my dad teaches me how to ride my first bike in the Detroit neighborhood of my youth. But I wouldn’t get serious about this odd contraption until I was ten years older than my father in this picture.

  Looking Good! To put it mildly, my first ten years were awkward. But finally I found something I was good at—swimming. This shot was taken just after I set the “10 and under” summer-league team record in the 25-meter butterfly.

  Welcome to College! This picture pretty much sums up my Stanford experience, and the decade that followed. Nothing got between me, my new best friend, and a good time.

  Golden Boy. On deck at Stanford’s DeGuerre Pool with my Stanford swim team buddies Hank Wise (LEFT) and Dave Schraven (CENTER), 1987. The world was my oyster.

  Best Day Ever. Very pregnant with our daughter Mathis, Julie and I get married—yoga style. That day held a little bit of everything—rock & roll, gospel singers, African dancers, a Hindu fire ceremony, a Sioux teepee, and readings from my stepsons, Tyler and Trapper. (PHOTO BY STACIE ISABELLA TURK)

  Seersucker in the Ashram. My parents played the role of good sports at my wedding to Julie, which was—to say the least—less than traditional. I’ll never forget my dad’s expression when he set eyes on Bhagavan Das, the legendary yogi and musician who married us.

  My New Bride, Julie. Not sure what I did to deserve this woman, but she would help me immensely in getting through the tough athletic ordeals ahead. (PHOTO BY STACIE ISABELLA TURK)

  Doctor of Jurisprudence—or Maybe Lack Thereof? Here I am at Cornell Law School graduation with my buddies Paul Morris (RIGHT) and Pablo Morales (LEFT), 1994. You could say I had too good a time that day, and things ended badly.

  Cheeseburger Heaven. My only decent “before” shot, this photo was taken when I was 38—on family vacation
visiting Julie’s relatives in Chile. I’m tipping the scales at about 190 here, around 20 pounds shy of my heaviest weight.

  The Bad News Bears. At my first Ultraman in 2008, I depended on this trusty crew (FROM LEFT): Chris Uettwiller, my dad, and the irrepressible LW Walman. None of us had any idea what we were doing. And that made it awesome.

  Hang Loose. Cruising during Ultraman 2008. Things were much simpler early in the race when I had just one simple goal: finish. (PHOTO BY RICK KENT)

  Post-Crash Face Bash. No, this isn’t a Botox treatment. Rather, I’m in the ER after landing on my face during a training ride while prepping for Ultraman 2009. To this day, I have no feeling in my lower lip. But I still like kissing my wife.

  Please Tell Me It’s Over. Seconds after completing Day Two of Ultraman 2009, I collapse in pain and relief. After crashing my bike just 35 miles into the 170-mile bike leg, I somehow found the wherewithal to finish, despite a very battered and swollen knee. (PHOTO BY RICK KENT)

  Trapper Sets the Pace. Crewing my run on Day Three of Ultraman 2009, my stepson Trapper works overtime to keep me hydrated and on pace.

  Blessed. Celebrating with my family just moments after completing the Day Three 52.4-mile run at Ultraman 2009. Don’t let the smile fool you. Moments later I was flat on my back.

  Slow Down: This Is Molokai. Jason Lester (FAR LEFT) and I (FAR RIGHT) prepare to embark on the marathon leg of EPIC5 Day Three on Molokai along with locals Rodney Nelson (a schoolteacher, CENTER LEFT) and high schooler Akona Adolpho (CENTER RIGHT). (PHOTO BY REBECCA MORGAN)

  How Many Did You Say? FIVE! On the fifth and final leg of EPIC5—attempting to complete five iron-distance triathlons on five islands—Jason Lester (LEFT) and I (RIGHT) ham it up with five-time Ironman Champion Luke McKenzie (CENTER), who dropped by the Kailua Pier to see us off to a good bike-leg start. (PHOTO BY REBECCA MORGAN)

  Done Deal. Jason Lester and me in Kona, just moments after we completed EPIC5. No TV cameras, no real press, and nobody there to congratulate us, save our crew and a few good friends. (PHOTO BY REBECCA MORGAN)

  Jai-loha! Julie with Jaya, Mathis, and Tyler, hiking the lava-encrusted beaches of the Big Island, 2011.

  Hey Sanjay, Over Here! Sanjay Gupta (CENTER) visiting our home for a piece on CNN. He’s supposed to be interviewing me, but of course all eyes are on Julie. She tends to have that effect on people.

  Standing Tall. Genius photographer and friend John Segesta took this shot for the cover of Matt Fitzgerald’s book Racing Weight. (PHOTO BY JOHN SEGESTA)

  Body Evolution. For the cover of 3/GO magazine, John Segesta re-created in the summer of 2011 the exact same image he snapped of me running two years earlier (the photo that graces the cover of this book). At the time, I honestly didn’t think my body could possibly appear any fitter than it did in that picture. But when you line up the two photos alongside each other, it’s not hard to see how my body continues to evolve—getting leaner, stronger, and faster with each successive year, regardless of age. (PHOTO BY JOHN SEGESTA)

  Barefoot in the Barrio. Probably my favorite photograph, taken by John Segesta for 3/GO magazine. (PHOTO BY JOHN SEGESTA)

  CHAPTER TEN

  EPIC5

  Rookie Mistakes, Burning Skies, Kahuna Spirits, and a Drunken Angel in the Pain Cave of the Real Hawaii

  When I was training in Hawaii with my Ultraman brother Jason Lester in the weeks leading up to the 2009 Ultraman, he let me in on a project that he’d been developing over the past year.

  “Four letters, Roll-Dawg. Four small letters, but one big word: E-P-I-C, epic. Five iron-distance triathlons. Five islands. Five days. E-P-I-C, epic … The EPIC5 Challenge!” A broad grin worked its way across his face as he spread wide five fingers on his left, and only functional, hand.

  I let this sink in before I spoke. “Wait a minute. Let me get this straight, are you saying—”

  Jason cut me off. “I’ll start with an iron-distance triathlon in Kauai, then head to Oahu, where I’ll do the original Ironman course. Then to Molokai, followed by Maui, and I’ll finish up on the Ironman World Championship course on the Big Island.”

  I shook my head and chuckled. Nothing even close to this had ever been done before—not even attempted. The logistics of inter-island travel alone were exhausting. But an iron-distance triathlon a day? Every day, five days in a row, on top of flying from island to island each evening? Impossible. Still, I knew Jason well enough to know that once he set his sights on a goal, there was no stopping him.

  Maybe that’s because he’d never met an obstacle he couldn’t overcome. He’d been taken from his drug-addicted mother at age three, been paralyzed in his right arm after being struck by a car in his early teens, and only a few years later he’d suffered the death of his beloved father, leaving him entirely alone in the world. But he’d come out the other side a champion. These days he cobbled together just enough funds to train and race full-time. Living a nomadic life, he was on a mission to inspire the best in others.

  “Sounds like a party,” I replied sarcastically. “But in all seriousness, let me know how I can help. Whatever you need, Jason. Just as long as I get to watch from the sidelines. Preferably the nosebleed seats.”

  As I described at this book’s outset, in the fall of 2009 I returned to the Ultraman World Championships, leading the race pillar to post for almost eight straight hours to seize the Day One victory with authority—by a full ten minutes, in fact. For the first time in my athletic life, I was no longer the also-ran—that second-place guy who just couldn’t quite get on top. Finally, at age forty-three, I’d shed that burden and won something. Something big.

  But Day Two found me bloodied and battered, flat on my face, limbs strewn across Hawaii’s Red Road. My bike was trashed. I was entirely alone. And I could barely move, my knee immobile. It seemed a given that the race was over for me. But it wasn’t.

  Lifted by the ohana of fellow crews, a first-aid kit, the miraculous donation of a brand-new pedal, and the encouragement of Julie and Tyler, I got back on the bike. At that point, I wasn’t in a race against my competitors, but rather myself. It was a hard-fought battle just to complete those 170 miles with a raw, throbbing shoulder and a knee that screamed in agony with each successive stroke. When I finally pedaled into the town of Hawi to mark the end of Day Two, I collapsed in a heap on the warm dewy grass just past the finish line, in tears not just of pain but of powerful emotion at having found the wherewithal to somehow see the day through.

  And even at that, I had one more ordeal to overcome.

  It was on the last day of the race—a double marathon run that I doubted I could even attempt, let alone complete, given my horribly swollen knee—that I experienced the most suffering I’d ever felt on a run up to that time. Baking in the irrepressible heat of the Kona lava fields, dehydrated and body failing, I cursed the race, the crash, myself, the world. That’s when suddenly I recalled a David Goggins quote I’d read years back—the idea that when you believe you’ve reached your absolute limit, you’ve only tapped into about 40 percent of what you’re truly capable of. The barrier isn’t the body. It’s the mind.

  Then I found myself thinking about what Julie had said to me, just before the race started that morning: “Remember, it’s already done. All you have to do now is show up. Stay present. And show us who you really are.”

  Show us who you really are.

  Nearing the end of that interminable run, as I made the final descent off the Queen K Highway toward the Old Airport landing strip for the last stretch to the finish line, I was swept off the ground by Julie, my crew, Tyler, and Trapper—all cheering wildly for me. And once again, those all-too-familiar tears returned.

  I was proud of myself. I’d showed up. I’d played hard when I was hurt. And I’d gotten it done. I’d crossed the finish line not just intact, but alive. Truly alive. That third day I’d covered 52.4 miles in seven hours and fifty-one minutes. It was a full seventy minutes faster than my 2008 effort—good enough for si
xth place overall in a total time of twenty-four hours and thirty minutes. I was the top American finisher with a time that would have actually won the race outright in both 2005 and 2006. Remarkably, I’d actually gone faster than David Goggins had in 2006—the man whose stunning athleticism first inspired this harebrained adventure to begin with.

  Is this it? I wondered. Will I ever top this feeling, ever top this performance? I couldn’t know then that an even more arduous test was waiting in my future.

  During the 2009 holiday season, Jason Lester, my Ultraman training partner who had talked fancifully about trying to complete five consecutive iron-distance triathlons on five different Hawaiian islands—a feat he called the EPIC5—visited my family at our house in Los Angeles. On New Year’s Eve, Julie organized a “visioning” project for the family and a few close friends, Jason included. We took the better part of the afternoon of December 31 to itemize the things that no longer served us, qualities we wanted to overcome, ideas we needed let go of, and dreams we wished to see materialize in 2010. Gathering everyone together at dusk around our outdoor fire pit, Julie kicked things off with a brief but powerful blessing. Then we went around in a circle, each of us mustering the courage to share a few of our private items aloud. Then we cast our notes in the fire. It sounds simple but it was a potent gesture, bringing us all closer. I remember glancing across the fire at Jason, watching as a small smile played at his lips.

  The next morning, he joined me as I sipped on a green smoothie in our backyard and kicked absently at the ashes in the fire pit from the night before. He cleared his throat and began.

 

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