10.8.2015 | 7:35 am
MRSA man, MRSA man
Doing things a MRSA man can
What’s it like?
Don’t want to know
MRSA man
—With apologies to “Particle Man” by They Might be Giants
I’ve left something out of one of my race writeups this year. Something important, at least to me. Something that has been, for the past two months or so, been the center of my life.
And I’ve got pictures. Although, to be fair, you may not want to see these pictures. I’m dead serious here, so I’m going to go bold italic red for a moment:
You may not want to see the pictures I’m going to show today, so might want to skip this post.
Why? Because I’m going to be talking about the MRSA (Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus), an antibiotic-resistent infection I’ve been living with.
You’ve been warned, OK?
It Started in Leadville, Maybe
There are many things to love about being a man with shaved legs. An almost overwhelming number, really. So many, in fact, that many male cyclists with naturally-burly leg hair (e.g., me) still go to the effort of keeping our legs smooth.
There is one drawback, however: occasional ingrown hairs. A hair somehow forgets that its job is to grow straight out and instead becomes a sullen, inward-pointing thing, trying to return from whence it came.
Maybe it’s Freudian. I don’t know. Nor do I care, really.
Generally when this happens, a zit-like red bump appears where the hair grew in. Within a couple days, it’s bothersome enough that you pick at it, dig it out, squeeze out the goo surrounding it, and carry on with your life.
No big whoop.
But about the time I got to Leadville this year, I had an unusually big ingrown hair. Or at least I thought it was an ingrown hair, and treated it as such: squeezing and digging and picking at it.
Someone should have put a cone of shame on my head right then.
It might’ve saved me from the agony I was about to put myself through.
But nobody did put a cone of shame on me, and so I continued to push, squeeze, pick and otherwise mess with this sore, which was becoming both larger and more obvious to all those around me.
And yes, it was obvious and visible to those around me, for it was not on my buttocks area; it was on the left side of my right leg, just above the knee.
It got big enough that it often hit the top tube when I rode. It got red enough and oozy enough that people asked me if I’d perhaps been bitten by a rattlesnake and just hadn’t noticed it.
I told The Hammer that I thought it was infected and that I thought I needed antibiotics.
“You’re just being paranoid,” she replied. “Stop playing with the thing and it will go away.”
Well, ceasing to obsess and fiddle with this thing — this thing that was the very center of my existence, to be honest — was out of the question, so I called my doctor (couldn’t go to him, since I was in Leadville and he doesn’t make 7-hour-drive house calls), described what it looked like, and got a prescription for antibiotics.
By the day of the race, the redness and grossness of this bump had faded considerably. In fact, it had faded to the point that I don’t recall it hitting my top tube a single time, and thus cannot blame it for the twelve minutes I’d like to blame it for.
Alas.
Resurgence
[A warning from Fatty: This is your last notice. Soon you’re going to see a picture, and you won’t ever be able to unsee it. Continue at your own risk.]
The Sunday I got back from Leadville, I did my laundry (by which I mean, “I put all my laundry in the hamper and all my clothes magically appeared clean and in their proper place). This was necessary because the next day I headed out to Austin for a three-day offsite meeting.
It was super fun.
On the flight home from that meeting, I was sitting on the plane, minding my own business, when — all of a sudden — a sharp pain began about three-quarters up the back of my right leg. Not severe, but sudden and surprising and painful. Like an ant had bitten it.
The next morning, I remembered the pain, reached around and felt where it had happened.
There was a bump. And it was tender and painful.
I got out a mirror and contorted myself into a position I won’t describe here. Not because I want to spare your feelings here, but because I lack the vocabulary to describe it with adequate precision.
I, apparently, was growing a little volcano out of the back of my leg. A volcane-let, if you will.
Luckily, however — since it was high up my leg and nowhere near my saddle — I was able to continue to ride, without particular pain, so long as I covered it with a bandaid or something so it wouldn’t get chafed by the constant motion of my bike shorts.
It got bigger and bigger each day. I tried to leave it alone, and utterly failed at this attempt. But bearing in mind that my wife had previously said I was just being paranoid with my last (oh-so-recent) sore, I didn’t do anything more.
In fact, on Saturday, The Hammer and I rode the Interlaken 100 (another story in my race report backlog). Even though the thing had grown to be the size of a racoon head (I’m exaggerating here; it was actually no larger than a squirrel’s head).
By Saturday night, however, it was hurting so much that I could not sleep. At all.
I took a picture of it, to get a better look at the thing. And then, aghast, I took another photo with a quarter beside it. For scale:
I decided it was probably time to get myself to a doctor.
Ow ow owowowowooowwww
I didn’t want to wait ’til Monday to see a doctor, and had no idea whether I’d be able to get an appointment with my regular doctor on Monday anyway, so I went to the Instacare.
Which turned out to be a stroke of genius.
I had no wait, and the doctor took quick, decisive action.
“We’re going to get you on antibiotics,” she said. “But first, let’s see if we can get some of that crud out.”
At which point she squeezed the living hell out of that volcano growing from my leg. I resolved to remain silent.
I failed, to a certain degree, in my resolution.
And by “certain degree,” I mean “high degree.”
“There’s a lot of MRSA going around here, she said. I’m going to swab and culture test this, but I think we’ll prescribe antibiotics that work against MRSA.”
Two days later, I got a call: it was MRSA, all right.
Which made me super happy, because now I knew: this wasn’t just a gross pus-filled festering boil. It was an exotic, scary gross pus-filled festering boil.
Ten Days Later
For the next ten days, I was the most religious about taking medicing I have ever been, taking my twice-daily meds exactly at 10am and 10pm.
During this time, I did not ride my mountain bike, for I had discovered that while the wound was not on my sitting area, it was in such a place that the nose of the saddle could (and would) whack it from time to time when I was descending.
Which made me somewhat tentative. And a lot more likely to just ride my road bike.
Little by little, the oozing and bleeding slowed. ’Til it was just a beautifully normal scab:
OK, maybe it’s not a thing of beauty to you, but to me: sheer visual poetry.
The Moral of the Story
There is no moral to this story. I just wanted to show you some gross pictures.
Comments (35)
10.7.2015 | 10:33 am
I have so many stories I have in my backlog. Stories about people who have won prizes. Stories about races I’ve done really well in, as well as stories about races I’ve done not-so-well in. Stories about riding at Levi’s Gran Fondo last weekend, including silly photos in a photo booth…with Jan Ullrich. For realsies. And even stories about a nasty infection I’ve been living with since August…including some pretty darned disturbing photos.
But I’m not going to talk about any of those today. Because right now, I just want to talk about what it’s like to be a cyclist when you have a cold.
As I noted on Monday, I’ve been pretty sick, with a pretty bad cold. And by “pretty bad cold,” I of course mean, “completely normal and common cold.” Which is to say, there’s nothing special or unusual about the cold I have. It’s just a cold.
And all colds are pretty bad.
The Beginning
I know exactly when I started experiencing symptoms of the cold: Sunday morning, 3:28am. I woke up with a sore throat.
At the moment, I rationalized the sore throat away. I had been at a Gran Fondo after-party ’til late; the music had been loud. I had to nearly shout in order to be heard. A sore throat could easily be the result of straining my voice.
But by Sunday morning, I could tell it was a cold. It wasn’t bad, not yet. But I knew what was coming.
By the time The Hammer and I got home from California, I felt really bad. And by Monday morning, I knew that there was no way any creative writing was going to happen. Maybe by Tuesday, I’d be able.
Then Tuesday came. Writing a fun story? Nope, not going to happen.
By Tuesday afternoon, I was feeling truly cranky. And groggy. And miserable.I was not fun to be with. Even more not-fun to be with than usual, I mean.
I called The Hammer at work, so I could complain to someone besides the dog and cat — neither of which were giving me the sympathy I deserved.
“I feel sick,” I revealed.
“I know you do,” The Hammer replied. “Have you taken some cold medicine?”
“Not in a while,” I replied. Somehow — and this is as strange a fact to me as it will be to you — I am capable of simultaneously being acutely aware of my cold symptoms, yet forgetting to take the medication that will alleviate aforementioned symptoms.
“Well, take your medicine, knucklehead,” The Hammer admonished.
Here’s a shocking fact: calling a nurse while she’s at work in order to get sympathy is not a productive exercise.
“I’m coming home,” she continued. “I’m finished rounding for the day, and I want to get a ride in before it gets dark.”
We got off the phone and I went back to feeling sorry for myself.
Inspiration
Then I had a flash of insight. I’d join The Hammer on her ride. Sure I’m sick, but I’ve ridden with a cold before, and I knew what it would be like: As soon as I started riding, I’d feel better.
All better, in fact.
I knew that the return of wellness would be an illusion; I wouldn’t be truly all better. I wouldn’t have my normal power or endurance on tap; I’d be slower than usual and would tire quickly. And I knew that after the ride, the fuzzy head, achy feeling, sore throat and runny nose would all return. Sometimes with a vengeance and with interest.
But I was willing to pay that cost right now. Just to feel good for an hour or so.
By the time The Hammer got home, there were two Cannondales on the bike rack and ready to ride: the Scalpel for her (she’s fallen in love with that bike and never rides anything else anymore), the F-Si for me (I’ve fallen in love with this bike, though I often ride other bikes too).
“I’m coming along,” I told The Hammer.
I expected an argument, but didn’t get one.
The Cure
We drove to Potato Hill trailhead at Corner Canyon — my main concession to my cold being that I didn’t want to ride up Hog Hollow; I’d keep the ride easy. Down Red Potato we went, then up Ann’s at an easy pace.
I felt fantastic. Head clear, breathing easy, aches a thing of the past. Bikes are such an amazing way to take a vacation from your cold.
We finished the loop in under an hour; we were back at the car. According to the original plan, we were done now.
But I wasn’t ready to be done. For the first time in three days, I was happy. Feeling good. “Let’s do Ghost,” I suggested.
“You’re up for it?” The Hammer asked.
“I feel wonderful,” I replied.
As we were speaking, another two riders pulled up. One of them had a Scalpel exactly like The Hammer’s, the other had a Scalpel from the previous year.
“Looks like we’re having a Cannondale convention,” I remarked.
We all started riding Ann’s Trail toward Peak View at a leisurely pace, the other two riders ahead of The Hammer and me.
Then we heard a low roar of voices and bike chains behind us.
I looked back: NICA kids. About fifteen of them. Coming up fast.
I do not want those kids to pass me, I thought to myself. I had two reasons for thinking this. The first was that I didn’t want to pull over and wait for fifteen people to pass me, then ride in a cloud of their dust for the rest of the ride.
And the real reason had to do with…well, frankly, it had to do with pride. Conceit. Whatever.
Apparently I wasn’t the only one who had this thought, either, because the two guys ahead of me (The Hammer was riding behind me) had stepped up their pace. In a big way.
I jumped, sprinting to catch the wheel of the rider ahead of me. Cold or no cold, a mental switch had flipped. I was now in race mode.
I hung with him, staying close on his wheel, while his friend pulled away.
“You want by?” he asked.
“I’m fine here,” I replied.
Then, a minute later, I reconsidered. I think I can catch that guy up ahead. “Go ahead and look for a place to let me by,” I said. And a moment later he had yielded. I was free to chase his friend.
I managed it. I buried myself, absolutely ruined myself chasing this guy down, but I caught him.
“You want by?” he asked.
“No way,” I replied. “Catching up to you took everything I have.”
He kept up a race pace, and I held on to his rear wheel by the skin of my teeth. Hurting and happy.
And that’s the way we pulled up to the Peak View parking lot. I rode slowly around the lot a couple of times ’til I could talk again, then stopped by the guy I had been desperately riding behind.
“That hurt,” he said.
“That was awesome,” I agreed.
Later, after the ride, the malaise and stuffiness and soreness and grouchiness would return. But no worse than before.
I had had a vacation from my cold, capped off with an intense impromptu race experience.
I love bikes.
Comments (15)
10.5.2015 | 8:21 am
UPDATE (Tuesday, October 6): Still sick. Blugh. Don’t feel like writing. Don’t even feel like sitting. Going back to bed.
I have so many things I want to write about. So many things I want to get caught up on.
But I’ve come down with a pretty rotten cold, and writing just isn’t happening.
I’m hoping to get past the worst of this thing today, and hope to post tomorrow.
Thanks,
Fatty
Comments (26)
09.28.2015 | 9:58 am
A Note from Fatty: If you want to jump straight to the 100MoN registration page, just click here.
It’s been a rollercoaster of a week.
Last Monday morning, I was almost giddy to reveal what I was certain would be the fastest-selling, most swag-laden 100 Miles of Nowhere ever.
By Monday afternoon, I was perplexed. Confused even. Not sure what I had done wrong. Registrations were down. Way down. Like, not even close to sold out.
By Tuesday morning, registrations were still not sold out. Nor by Tuesday, for that matter.
I don’t want to be too dramatic, but I also don’t want to be dishonest, so believe me when I say that “despair” is what I was feeling by Wednesday morning when we still weren’t close to selling out.
Have I done a bad job explaining this fundraiser? Have I worn out my welcome? What have I done wrong?
Then I tried to get over myself, stop taking it so personally, and I started thinking. Which resulted in my theories and questions I posted on Thursday.
Your responses have been incredible: instructive, uplifting, and constructive. I’ve bookmarked the page and will come back to it not just for next year’s 100 Miles of Nowhere, but for every fundraising effort I ever do.
Thank you for that.
Knowing what I’ve learned in the past few days, I realize now I probably should have led with what I’m going to be talking about today: something I had thought about as being a cool surprise to spring on 100MoN racers after registration was over.
Which is this.
Riding 100 Miles of Nowhere…in Michigan, With Camp Kesem Leaders
The good folks at Camp Kesem have invited the twins and me over to their leadership summit, which just happens to be November 7, the same day as the 100 Miles of Nowhere.
Almost as if we had planned it that way.
Now, normally, when you hear the term “Leadership Summit,” you think long speeches and conference rooms.
But this is Camp Kesem. And so the Leadership Summit is going to be happening at Camp Copneconic, and it’s going to be chock full of college kids — the same amazing kids who spend their summers being Camp Kesem counsellors.
We’re going for three reasons. First (but not foremost), I’ll be presenting to Camp Kesem leadership and counsellors on what Team Fatty is and how the way we raise money for great causes is a reflection of who we are. The fact is, Camp Kesem and the 100 Miles of Nowhere is a match made in heaven: great cause, silly execution.
Originally, I planned to mostly be presenting on how to have fun when fundraising. This last week, however, has been eye-opening and I’ll be adding a lot of key learnings from it, too.
Second, I plan to do my 100 Miles of Nowhere on rollers or a trainer or a bike or whatever I can figure out (under a covered porch if the weather’s bad, on dirt roads if the weather’s good) the day before the big summit, as the counsellors arrive. It’ll gie me a great chance to talk with people individually about what the 100 Miles of Nowhere is, who Team Fatty is, and why I’m proud to raise money for Camp Kesem.
And if they would like to put in a few miles themselves, that’s even more awesome.
Will I be taking video? You bet I will.
Third and most important: The twins will be on a Q&A panel answering questions about what kids love about Camp Kesem and what it means to them. This is in fact the thing I care most about.
Final Big Ask
Tuesday September 29 is the final day of the 100 Miles of Nowhere registration. I have to close it then in order to get all the shirt, socks, and jersey orders nailed down.
I’m excited to tell these people about your generosity and the ridiculous things you do for good causes.
I’d love to be able to say, while I’m there, that for the fourth year in a row since I’ve done this race as a fundraiser for Camp Kesem, that it’s sold out.
If you haven’t registered and you can, please do.
PS: If you live in Michigan and can help me get set up with a bike or two or three (and some rollers or a trainer) — and better yet, if you can join me November 6 and do your 100 Miles of Nowhere right in front of the Camp Kesem leaders — please email me: fatty@fatcyclist.com. Make sure your subject says, “100 Miles of Nowhere in Michigan” so I don’t miss it.
Comments (24)
09.16.2015 | 12:07 pm
A “Previously…” Note from Fatty: This is part 3 of my Crew Report for the 2015 Lotoja. Click here for Part 1, and click here for Part 2.
Carbonated water is a mysterious modern miracle. I don’t know how the carbon dioxide disappears or dissolves or whatever into water. I don’t know why the pressure of carbonated water increases when you shake it (or why that pressure eventually settles down).
I do know that the carbon dioxide stays in the water only if under pressure. Mostly. Because even if you let soda go completely flat and then shake it…well, it seems there’s still a little fizz in there.
And that fizz wants out.
I say all this as prelude to the fact that Lindsey had let the Dr Pepper in each of the two water bottles she wanted us to give her go — as far as she could tell — completely flat.
And also I say this as prelude to the fact that by the time Blake and I arrived in Montpelier, where we would facilitate our first fueling exchange for The Hammer and Lindsey after they had ridden 76 miles, about ninety percent of the Dr Pepper Lindsey had put in her bottles had migrated to pretty much everywhere that was not in her bottles.
Which is to say, Blake and I had a bit of mess on our hands, and Lindsey did not have Dr Pepper in her bottles.
It was a mess, but not really a problem. We had parked pretty far away from the actual exchange point, figuring that it would be easier to make a quick getaway if we weren’t near other cars. And coincidentally, that “far away from the exchange point” place was a quick walk away from a convenience store.
So while Blake set to rinsing the Dr Pepper off everything that was in the ice chest, I went to the convenience store to buy more Dr Pepper.
As I walked, I muttered to myself, “Pop tarts? Dr Pepper? I’ve got to talk to Lindsey about what she fuels with during these races.”
Ready for the Montpelier Exchange
Even with the Dr Pepper disaster, even with my nearly-ticketed moment, even with my getting The Hammer and Lindsey to the starting line with literally no time to spare, Blake and I still got to the Montpelier exchange with an absurd amount of time to spare.
According to the times The Hammer had written down (based on Lindsey’s Strava from the previous year), we had more than an hour and a half to wait at the exchange.
We knew we had found the right place when we saw Ben’s family, who patiently posed for a picture as they waited for Cory and Ben to come in:
So we set up camp and watched. Some racers blew through, grabbing a musette bag on the fly.
Others stopped, got off their bikes, browsed through their food and drink options, and had the race equivalent of a family reunion.
And it was a lot of fun to just stand in the background, watching people watch for their racers. Commenting, speculating, watching hoping. Then springing into action, some people obviously practiced and smooth and efficient. Some people overanxious and solicitous and concerned.
Which way was the right way? Well, whichever way felt right, of course. Different racers, different objectives.
More than anything else, though, it was fun to watch the immense amount of pride on all the faces and in all the actions of the people crewing.
It was an incredibly positive atmosphere.
The Montpelier Exchange
Blake and I would not be the kind of crew who stopped and asked our riders about their day so far. We knew Lindsey and Lisa were serious about the race and would want to get through the exchange as quickly as possible.
We also knew they would be coming in together; that was the whole plan: for The Hammer and Lindsey to work together and each do well in their respective categories.
So, knowing the women would be coming in together, Blake and I had arranged we’d each be in charge of one specific person. I’d take care of The Hammer; he’d take care of Lindsey.
It was a great plan, and it probably would have worked great…if our racers had come in together.
But they didn’t.
Instead, Lindsey came streaking in on her own, The Hammer nowhere in sight.
I was a little bewildered, but figured I’d learn the “why” of how they got separated later. Crewing ain’t no time for jibber-jabber.
Probably, I should have just stayed back and let Blake do his thing. He had everything under control. But I just couldn’t help myself, and jumped in, yanking Lindsey’s arm warmers off her arms. Shoving electrolytes into her mouth. Pulling bottles out of her cages.
Blake worked around me. Half as fast, twice as efficient. Within fifteen seconds, we were finished.
“Lisa’s 1:45 behind me,” Lindsey said, as she pushed off, joining the small-but-speedy group of women she had rolled in with.
“One minute, forty-five seconds?” Blake said to me after Lindsey left. “That’s strangely specific. How could she know how far back Lisa is?”
“I think a motorcycle relays the distance between lead and chase groups to each other,” I replied.
And then I voiced my concern: “Why were they separated at all? And do you think Lisa’s going to be mad?”
“She might be,” Blake mused. “My mom’s a little bit…intense about racing.”
“Yeah. A little bit, I guess,” I say. I don’t say, “And that’s one of the things I love about her. She’s just like me that way. She understands how I think when I’m racing; I understand how she thinks.”
Why don’t I say it? For one thing, because I know Blake would make a gag noise if I did.
More importantly, though, I don’t say anything else because The Hammer is pulling in. Once again I am jumping around and doing everything at once, trying to force electrolyte pills into The Hammer’s mouth and put a bottle of water in her hands to wash them down, even as she demands a cold Coke.
A cold Coke. I should have known. Luckily, Blake has one in-hand, pops the top, and gives it to her. We are the best crew there has ever been.
As we’re working, I notice there’s another woman, right by The Hammer, also having a crew quickly get her fuel swapped out. “You about ready to go, Ellie?” The Hammer asks. Good, I think to myself. She’s not just out there riding alone; she’s working with someone.
I double-check we’ve given The Hammer everything she wants: new bottles? Electrolytes? Gels? Anything else? yep, yep, yep, nope.
And she’s gone.
“Let’s get to the Afton exchange,” I say to Blake.
And that’s where we’ll pick up in the next installment of this story.
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