by Brian Boyle
By mid-May, I’ve gained about twenty pounds, which finally puts me up to about two hundred pounds—a weight gain of seventy pounds since I left Intensive Care twenty months ago. I also feel better about my physical appearance because the scars on my stomach, arms, neck, and chest have started to fade from a garish blood-red to a more tolerable light pink. My left shoulder is improving as well, but it still gives me trouble on the bench press.
The bench press has always been my favorite exercise. My interest started back in sixth grade when I began lifting on a bench press in our garage. As I became older, I bench-pressed heavier weights; I never really had formal training, but in my junior year in high school, I entered a regional power-lifting championship and competed in the 181-pound division. I took first place.
I’ve always wanted to pursue amateur bodybuilding. Like many others in the sport, I’m a big fan of Arnold Schwarzenegger, especially after seeing the classic 1970s bodybuilding documentary “Pumping Iron.” Another world-class bodybuilder I follow is Jay Cutler, a two-time Mr. Olympia winner who now lives in Las Vegas. Many think Jay’s the next Arnold. I’ve read his magazine profiles, researched his background, and kept up-to-date on all his important wins. He stands only five feet nine, but his massive arms are twenty-one inches and his bulging chest measures fifty-six inches.
One day as I’m looking at Jay’s website, I send him a quick email to introduce myself and see if he can offer any advice. The next day, he fires off an email to me with helpful workout tips—daily exercise routines, when to rest, how much cardio I should be getting, and proper foods to gain lean muscle. Later, he sends me an autographed copy of his book, several workout DVDs, shirts, and a cap.
Following his recommendations, my revised workout program consists of upper-body routines on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. The lower-body routines take place on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. On each day, I usually do about three sets of ten different exercises, starting with eight reps, then six reps, followed by four reps. On Sunday, I take a break from all training and allow my muscles to recover.
I log every single workout in a grade-school composition book. It doesn’t take long to see noticeable results on paper and in the mirror. It seems like only yesterday I was bench-pressing a broomstick in the large physical therapy room at Kernan Rehabilitation Center, and now I’m able to lift 225 pounds for a single maximum effort. Back then, I struggled to bicep-curl two and a half pounds, and now I’m up to thirty pounds. Best of all, a Canadian nutritional supplement company that manufactures whey protein powder called 4EverFit, as well as selling a wide range of products for hard-core bodybuilders, has contacted me in regard to sponsoring my amateur bodybuilding career.
I have all the motivation in the world to see how far I can take my bodybuilding. By Christmas, I weigh 240 pounds. Two years ago, in 2004, I was a fraction of this size, weak, feeble, and uncertain about whether any of my withered muscles would reappear. I had just graduated from a wheelchair imprisonment. Now I can bench-press 375 pounds and bicep-curl 50 pounds. I’ve had to buy an entire new wardrobe. My friends and parents are amazed by my physical transformation. I can’t help but laugh when I think about what it would be like to swim in this kind of bulked-up shape. Yet when I look in the mirror and do bodybuilding poses, I don’t always see beefcake Brian staring back. I see instead sickly Brian on life support in Intensive Care. Even though I look larger in the reflection, I feel diminished and frail. My mind remains in a state of denial, unwilling to accept my radical body makeover. No matter how many new pounds of muscle I’ve managed to accumulate, I still see an emaciated victim underneath muscle-plated armor. Nonetheless, as a reminder of how far I traveled on the road to recovery, I keep a photo by my bed that was taken shortly after leaving Intensive Care: I’m sitting in the wheelchair, slumped over with my hands folded and head lowered. This sad, forlorn image that signifies defeat always makes me nervous that the moment I stop working out, all the progress I’ve made can be stripped away. Because my life before and after the accident remains joined together as dueling realities, I am always aware of how lucky I was to escape death, and escape being permanently trapped in a non-functioning body. The effort of taking a shower, for example, is a daily reminder that my scars are as much mental as physical. The bodybuilding pushes me forward, allowing a positive reawakening of my athletic potential.
That is why I constantly remind myself to live in the present even though the post-accident phase demands to ride shotgun. During that first month home from Intensive Care, Dad had to carry me upstairs so he and my mom could bathe me just like when I was little. He even joked, “Don’t forget you’re probably going to have to do this for me in twenty years.” He actually believed that I’d be healthy and normal again one day. After every shower, he’d carry me to my bed where I’d sit in my bathrobe and look at my thin reflection in the mirror and ask myself repeatedly: Is this really me?
But now, the new me is the one who worked hard and long for the past year to pack on weight and muscles because that is my real identity—not Skeleton Boy.
Through my weight training and bodybuilding over the past year, I’ve learned a lot about fitness and nutrition. I consider getting a part-time job as a personal trainer. My athletic background and recovery from the accident will help people achieve their fitness-related goals. Look how far I’ve come since the crash. Glancing back, however, those two years seemed endless because the recovery took place in small, everyday increments. There were no shortcuts.
To become certified as a personal trainer, I first needed to pass a test, There are several types of exams for certification, but the one usually recommended is from the American Council of Exercise. The nearby College of Southern Maryland offers this test, so I invest in a thick textbook and study manual. A lot of the material deals with anatomy, some of which I learned throughout my rehab—bones, muscles, joints, and ligaments. Then there’s exercise physiology and how it relates to a potential client’s age and health. After studying for several weeks, I take the three-hour test that features 150 multiple choice questions as well as a written simulation test with two client scenarios.
Because I won’t know my test results for at least a month, I find an entry-level job at the Sport & Health Club where I started working out after I came home from the hospital with my Uncle Joe. Members range in age from teens to senior citizens. Most of the women work out on the upper level with the resistance equipment, elliptical machines, treadmills, and stationary bikes. The guys mainly work out downstairs with bench presses, leg press machines, squat racks, and free weights.
My tasks entail going around with paper towels and a disinfectant spray bottle to clean the equipment and shadow other personal trainers. I like walking around in my red T-shirt with the club logo, answering members’ questions about the exercise machines.
After a month of working at the gym, I receive a letter in the mail from the American Council of Exercise. I open the white envelope in the driveway, look at my test scores, and see that it says Congratulations in big bold letters at the bottom of the page listing my passing score. I drive back to the gym to proudly show my bosses the official documentation that I’m certified and can begin finding and training clients.
My first client is Kawanda, who is a military mother in her mid-thirties and slightly overweight. I have talked to her on several occasions in the gym. She knows about my background with the accident and recovery, and I think that is why she wants me as her personal trainer. She knows that I understand the frustration of being out of shape and the desire to get healthy and fit.
Kawanda’s most pressing concern is passing the U.S. Army’s annual physical training test. One requirement is running one and a half miles. She says that her running is weak. For our first session, I start her out with some light stretching for about five minutes and then we go over to the treadmill for ten minutes to get her muscles activated. Then we do thirty minutes of light strength-training routines on the various machines.
In addition to toning and conditioning exercises, I recommend that she join a group fitness or spinning class. Our session ends with several minutes on the stationary bike for a cool down. We decide that I will be her personal trainer on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.
My second client is a middle-aged mother named Karen who is trying to lose the weight she gained during her recent pregnancy. I help design a plan that will also improve her overall conditioning level because she used to be active before she became pregnant. We’re scheduled to meet three times a week.
My third client is Aaryn, who is a collegiate swimmer and wants help with her strength training. I put together a fairly hard-core plan that focuses on shoulders, core strength, and leg power. I recommend that she do two sessions a week with me.
Outside of personal training, I’m also teaching swim lessons during the week to a high school sophomore swimmer named Rachel. She’s been swimming competitively for several years and wants extra help with the one-hundred-yard butterfly. We drive to a local pool to practice for an hour. I usually have her do one-arm drills, swimming with a resistance band, and swimming at race pace.
Because of the amount of time I was required to spend in physical therapy after my long hospitalization, I feel like I have a unique perspective in helping my nonathletic clients. It’s a wonderful motivational tool—even for myself when I occasionally imagine that I’m back in the hospital. I know I must live in the present, but the past is something I can’t seem to escape from either.
PART THREE
SOUL
CHAPTER 29
MY FIRST TRIATHLON
Before 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.