Time to talk about somebody else for a change

Every now and then, I receive a random email from someone I don’t know who has come across my blog online. David Deak is one such person, and with his permission, I want to share a little bit of his story here. Besides it being an incredibly inspiring one, from time to time I quite frankly get a little tired of talking about myself.

David is a Toronto-born Canadian living in Denmark. He entered into the world of triathlon the same year that I did, 2006, but tackled the Ironman distance sooner than me by taking a crack at IM Austria in 2008. Having apparently enjoyed it, he signed up for the IM Austria 2009 the very next morning.

As David began his preparation for his second Ironman, he began to dabble in the world of vegan eating. Like me, he was largely motivated by a quest for optimal health and fitness, with socio-moral-philosophical reasons weighing in a close second. He read The Thrive Diet (an excellent guide to vegan eating and training by professional triathlete Brendan Brazier) and then T. Colin Campbell's The China Study. Like me, David began to notice his energy levels increase and his fatigue cycle decrease between training sessions with a plant-based diet.

A few short weeks after his first Ironman, David’s family received some unfortunate news. His father, who had suffered from type-II diabetes and high blood pressure for a number of years, was diagnosed with end-stage renal disease (considered terminal). David’s dad was told he would have to choose between a life on dialysis or possible kidney donation. David and his brother, Andrew - also a vegan - put themselves forward as possible kidney donors. They spent the fall and winter of last year undergoing the necessary medical tests to determine who would be the most compatible and lowest risk donor. The results concluded that David was the only possible option. In the meantime, David’s father’s disease had accelerated much quicker than expected and by January of this year, he was put on dialysis.

David accepted the role of organ donor to his father without question, although certainly not without mental turmoil. Both the risks associated with kidney donation (not least of all, decreased longevity) and the unknowns of being able to pursue his new-found passion for triathlon with one kidney weighed heavily on his mind. The medical team had no idea if it was even possible to train for an event like Ironman with one man in two down. There was also the burden of further medical vetting of his father and the seemingly constant postponements of the surgery date as the medical team tried to ensure that his Dad was in a condition to handle the transplant.

David continued with his preparation for IM Austria, albeit sporadically, while being fully prepared to cancel his participation if it clashed with the surgery date. It was around this point that David came across my blog. I think he was using a combo of keywords relating to vegan and Ironman on google, and there I was. David got in touch and shared his story with me, and we swapped emails for a few weeks on being Canadian in Europe, being vegan in the sports world, and being under pressure in expected ways through life’s varying twists and turns.

Shortly after I first heard from David, the date for surgery was finally set – and it happened to be ten days after IM Austria. A little more mental turmoil ensued, and David decided to go ahead with the race while preparing for the donation; who knows if it would be his last opportunity? Through all of this, he continued with his vegan diet and got his Dad on the bandwagon in the hopes that a plant-based diet might abate his rapidly deteriorating condition. The preparations to donate proved to be intense and his training suffered to the point of being non-existent (and he didn’t mention this at the time, but I later found out that somewhere in the middle of all this, he also changed jobs and moved house).

July rolled around, and David drove down to Austria to toe the line at the edge of beautiful Lake Worther in Klagenfurt on July 5h. He swam 3.8km in 1:09, biked 180km in 5:11 and ran 42.2km in 3:37 to finish in a remarkable overall time of 10.04.

Only the pros were ahead of him.

The next day, he got in the car and drove back to Holland, where his dad lives and where the kidney transplant was to take place. He rested a few days as other family members arrived in Holland to help, before driving himself and his Dad to the hospital. The surgery went well, and within two days he was out of hospital. A few days afterwards I received an email from David:

“…doing an Ironman is kind of cool and pretty hardcore, but donating a kidney - that is way more crazy and way more hardcore! It’s scarier and definitely plays around with the mind a little…but I am really glad I did it. It has given my Dad a second chance at things. The doctors reported that he has a "turbo kidney": they had to scale back his medication abruptly because the kidney was doing such a good job and brought all the blood markers (creatinine, phophorous, etc.) down faster than record. That news made us all smile – they suspect that it’s due to diet and my ironmanning.”

That made me smile, too.

It is now six weeks since the operation. David’s recovery is similarly going extremely well, and he’s back on the bike and running on a regular basis already, with just the one kidney. The scar is still preventing him from swimming, but it’s close to being fully healed. Obviously not one to rest on his laurels, he’s already signed up for IM Lanzarote next year, and plans to be the first vegan with one kidney to complete an Ironman.

He’s got me beat.

What a small dose of CNN can do

Following on from yesterday's brief muse on new world vs. old world living, it's true that I am beginning to notice the degree of my separation from life as I used to know it.

I've lived in small-town France for three months now, and I know all my neighbours by first name. I stop to talk to old men playing bowls in the small villages I ride through. I lean out the window and watch children play in the narrow old town streets beneath my apartment. I will spend up to five minutes practicing the pronunciation of a word that contains the vexing double 'll' in French with a patient friend. I wouldn't dream of missing my post-lunch siesta without a very good reason and I don't sit down to dinner before eight, and I always sit down to dinner. The idea of getting either food or a coffee to go seems absurd and come to think of it, I haven't seen a Starbucks in a very long time (the French have done the best job of resisting North American chains of any western European country I've visited).

Today I did something that had me really sit up and take notice of the extent to which I have become cloistered from the new, or English-speaking world (for me, the two have become synonymous). Thinking that it's been a week since I updated myself on current affairs, I tuned into CNN radio online this morning. I could only take it for ten minutes. I've never had much of a tolerance for mainstream American journalism and have not been a fan of CNN in particular, and while I didn't tune in as a means to stimulate some critical thinking or bolster my social awareness - I just wanted to hear the headlines - I was shocked at how quickly the soundbites of 'news' sickened me.

I turned it off and walked down to the market to talk to my favourite vendor, Jerome. Other than being the only vendor in the market who speaks a little bit of English, Jerome became my favourite when I tasked his cheeseless aubergine gratin a few months back. It was a little piece of vegetable heaven in a plastic tupperware. Having given up a career in four-star restauranteurism in Paris, Jerome returned to his native region in the south of France in search of a life that would be less likely to lead to burnout. He now resides in a nearby village with his wife and two children, with whom he's free to spend time with in the afternoons after the market closes. In the evening, he prepares the selection of plates that he sells hot and cold the following morning, and people like me can dine on a potpourri of dishes - I eat all the vegetable side orders - made by a chef with four-star Parisian restaurant training, all for a couple of euros. Jerome tells me stories of life on the restaurant circuit, his travels to work in hotels in Shanghai, Hong Kong, and Dallas, and why life is better now. I counsel him on his fitness regime: he is up to running an hour at a time and recently bought a rode bike. Ten minutes of this was a good antidote to the CNN exposure and left me feeling a little encouraged by the state of the human condition, but still wondering if I will ever be able to cross the chasm back into a world where News is Entertainment.

Business as Usual

It's back to business as usual here in Narbonne; the bumper-to-bumper camper vans that have lined the beach roads for the last three weeks are slowly tricking away and I'm noticing fewer and fewer Parisian license plates with irate drivers behind the wheels around town. The weather is hot but pleasantly breezy and the vendanges (grape harvest) began a few days ago, heralding the beginning of the end of high summer. So rather than dodging the camper vans, I'm now dodging grape-picking machinery on the vineyard routes. The harvest is low-key right now - strictly for chardonnay and a few other early-ripening varieties, I'm told. When the harvest is in full swing in a few weeks time, I'll have something new to look out for on my rides: the slip-and-slide that I've been warned will ensue when the roads become soaked in grape juice and decorated with slippery grape skins. It seems that a cyclist has many foes, even in cycling paradise.

In my preparation for Ironman, I have arrived at the 'heart' of the training program: three weeks of race-simulation training sessions with a sprinkling of anaerobic interval workouts in all three disciplines; all designed to bring together the last seven months of training into an explosion of peak fitness that will presumably burst forth on October 4th as planned. As far as I can tell, everything seems to be going accordingly to that plan.

In other news, I've updated the gadget on the left that shows my recent pictures so that it now actually merits that name. It only took me a full morning to figure out how to do what I did seven months ago when setting up my blog. It served to remind me of how very un-technical I am and left me musing as to whether I am better suited to a life where the seasons are marked by the cycle of the vines.

P.S.

I haven't been asked how I felt after a meal this many times since the time I tried a deep-fried Mars bar in a chip shop in Glasgow.

I felt fine, everybody, after my concessionary consumption of meat and cheese last week. I had no stomach pain, no bloating, no gas or any other ill-effects that I'm receiving inquiries about. No limbs fell off either. And no, eating sausages didn't feel like that first sip of water after crossing the desert. The meal tasted good, but largely becasue of company I shared it with.

And no, I don't think this is the beginning of the end. Quite the contrary, in fact: my new rule of allowing myself to break the rules from time to time in the name of accepting hospitality with a little tact and grace makes staying (largely) vegan for life seem more plausible to me than before. I estimate that my diet will remain 90-95% vegan now, and yes, I will continue to write about my experience as I prepare for Ironman. Now that I'm home, I'm cooking up a storm in the kitchen. I've missed good vegan home-cooking over the last week more than I realized. In fact, my first meal back at home felt a little like I just crossed the desert and had my first taste of fresh water.

Sit Down Before Reading

Things can change quickly in the mountains. Weather systems move fast, changing blue skies into rumbling thunderstorms in a matter of hours. Rapid changes in altitude can chill the air quickly; the temperature at the top of a col can be ten degrees lower than the temperature at the bottom. Ideas can change quickly, too. I have always found that spending time in nature, and in the mountains in particular, can silence the chattering in the mind, change the colour of certain feelings, allow for new ideas to bubble up, and give old ones the space to redefine themselves or be put to bed if found to be no longer useful.

So here's what came to pass in the mountains for me last week: I ate meat. And cheese. That's right: I ate meat and cheese. It happened like this: we arrived at our final stopping point of the trip, a remote chambre d'hôte in the foothills of the Pyrenees. For those who are not familiar with the chambre d'hôte experience, the arrangements are similar to a bed and breakfast in that you have your own room and washroom facilities, however the experience is more akin to being a guest in the host's home rather than a formal accommodations arrangement (in the old days, it would more commonly be a farmhouse where the farmers wife took in paying guests to subsidize the household income).

All this means that you eat meals with the family.

So there I found myself, seated at a long, wooden table in the kitchen of a remodeled eighteenth-century farmhouse perched on a hilltop with a panoramic view of the Pyrenees on one side, and a view down into the fields where the family’s horses were grazing on the other. Our hosts, Dorothée and Jean-Louis, had invited us to share an aperitif with them while they buzzed around the kitchen and adjacent terrace, preparing dinner and sharing in tandem the story of how having raised five children, they discovered, fell in love with and bought the old ruined property eight years ago and have since devoted all of their time to rebuilding it into haven where people could come and experience nature and hospitality in a pure and simple way. I was doing my best to follow along in French, but was mostly staring at the outdoor firepit, upon which Dorothée’s homemade sausages were roasting, and wondering how on earth I was going to explain my dietary particularities to our hosts. Dorothée was telling us how her and her sister had spent a day making the sausages together, using meat left over from last year’s hunting season, while she checked the progress of the potato gratin that was made with potatoes from their garden and cheese from a neighbouring farm. Three aperitifs later, the sun was setting and dinner was almost ready. I went upstairs to fetch a sweater and mull things over.

It took all of three minutes. I decided there and then that the time was ripe to change les règles (change the rules) for the remainder of the year: I would henceforth lay aside my vegan preferences when eating food that others have prepared for me. Having settled on that, I descended to the kitchen and broke bread with our hosts and the other guests who had assembled around the kitchen table; twelve of us in total. Over the course of the next three hours, I consumed some of the best sausages I have ever tasted in my life, cheeses that I had never heard of before because they are particular to that region of the Pyrenees, a homemade apple torte that most likely contained butter and eggs but I wasn’t asking, and last but certainly not least, ice-cream.

I realize that this news may come as quite a shock to my readers (and hence the forewarning heading), but in fact, it's been on the cards for a while. The need to be flexible at certain times in life is a concept I've been turning over in my mind for some time now. It doesn't come naturally to me; I have somehow had being flexible tangled up with lack of commitment for goodness knows how long (I recall my stringent examination of labels and in-depth investigations into the stock used to make soup in restaurants back in January with a wry smile now; I actually stopped doing that a few months ago). There's a quote out there about how the happiest people you will meet in life tend to be the most flexible in the face of changing circumstances. I can't find the quote, but I am beginning to understand it on a new level, and would even add to it: relaxing a rigid approach also opens up the mind to see new opportunities as they arise. And all this has nothing to do with a lack of commitment. My life has changed dramatically in the last eight months; I don’t have the solitary life that I had when I first decided to become vegan in Switzerland. I share meals with others more frequently here in France, and while I’ve been amazed at how others have gone out of their way to accommodate me and have taken it as an opportunity to show the depth of their hospitality and their ability to adapt, I no longer feel the need to adhere to my diet preferences with an unwavering rigidity. I have no doubt that eating a diet free of animal products has put me in the best health of my life and can fully support an Ironman training program with surplus energy to spare. In that sense, the need to test the hypothesis under scientific conditions has, for me, past.

And I am beginning to understand that you can hold true to the spirit of a commitment without living a black and white life. In other words, I am becoming more flexible.

And suddenly, I feel happier.

Notes from France again, before the rain set in

And finally, coming back into France for the last few cols on the list:




After Col de Peyresourde and Col de Aspin, storms blew in and I've been reduced to trail-running on soaked-out mountain passes. My legs are complaining but my buttocks seem relieved.

You can't please everyone.

Notes from Spain

Descending Col de Portillon (1293 m) Spain.

If I look like I'm having a good time in the picture, it's because I am. Also, it was taken on a descent: my face doesn't look the same on the way up. My internet access is still limited, so I can't report in any more detail than that. And my fingers don't work so well anyway after holding on to my brakes for dear life on the long descents. And I can't sit down for long periods of time either. But I'm having a lot of fun, and I think my legs are actually getting stronger each day. Either that, or more numb.

Notes from Andorra

It might only cover 470 km2 of ground, but it has some serious peaks and valleys. Andorra is, in fact, all peaks and valleys. Don't come here expecting to do any gentle, scenic flat bicycle tours.

Here's what we did on day one:


Ouch.

Now I know why this nation has the highest life expectancy in the world; their ancestors couldn't go anywhere without climbing or descending anything less that a 10% gradient.

We're leaving for Spain now, but not without partaking in another façon de vivre known to promote general well-being: duty-free shopping.