Ouch! Long day. 10.5 hours. Technical from start to finish. Unrelenting.  A series of about 1000 3-4 second sprints at 12,000 feet and 3300 vertical.  I didn’t use the winch. We’re saving it for the upper mountain.  The Harken winch is a great mechanism.  We’re still figuring out the intricacies for our purposes. We’ll figure it out. On the other side, the rig ran great. I was constantly surprised at what I climbed. The new pivot is fantastic.

I knew this would be the most difficult day other than the summit day. It took longer than I hoped, but it’s behind me now.  With each step of this journey, I feel more optimistic – but cautiously optimistic.  The first half of tomorrow will be technical. The second half will be on the road. Hopefully, the dust subsides.  Sarah Walllis told us before we left that it was “exploding dust” on the mountain. She was right.

The coolest sight of the day: leaving the rain forest and getting our first majestic view of Kili and her glacier-crowned glory.  It’s a magical draw.

- Chris

I slept hard until about 4:15. The roosters had started by then, but I drifted back to sleep. By 6 I was up when I heard the crescendo of cow bells seemingly building on itself. There was no snooze button for this alarm. It was okay. I was up. T-shirt weather befitting lush jungle.

Short of yesterday’s short spin in Kubwa, I don’t feel like I’ve done much training since I left Crested Butte and that was more testing than long days. Dave had said all along that he wanted me to taper my training. I’d protested. Tapering had never worked for me. I always felt worse. My body seems to feel better with hard days. Somehow I think we’ll both get our wish.

- Chris

We’ve dubbed the new vehicle Kubwa, which means huge or really huge in Swahili depending on inflection. I’d hoped to call it son of a bomba, but no one else seemed to see the humor as much as I did, and “huge” really seems appropriate for this vehicle with it’s wheels straight out of a monster truck rally.

We’ve just left Mobility Care, which will manufacture our donated  wheelchairs. After the climb we’ll meet the first three wheelchair recipients. To me, this is as exciting as our climb of Kili, for which we’re now driving to the Marangu Hotel for an early morning start.

I don’t think that I’m a typical wheelchair user. It’s funny that my life didn’t take an obvious turn after my accident–whatever that means. I realize that I’m a participant in not taking an obvious path, but I’m also the product of some great opporunities. Many people aided me from doctors, nurses, family, friends, and total strangers. We just never know what twists and turns our lives will take. With our Mobilty Care relationship and with the climb and documentary film I hope that we can provide some twists and turns for people who’d long ago assumed an obvious
straight path.

As I lay in bed last night unable to sleep with anticipation, I wondered how I could find that quiet place that would allow me to rest, to relax, and to nod off. I wondered if it was a person, a memory, maybe just counting backwards from 1000 by 3’s. Nothing soothed the disquiet, until I thought, I need help. Ease finally came.  As my friend Nate, our doctor on the trip, said, “If you don’t ask for help, we don’t have a purpose.”

Hi all,

We’re here. Everything arrived but the rigs and Dave Penney’s gear,  which should arrive tomorrow evening on the next flight from  Amsterdam. Not having the rigs will make things more challenging, but  that’s why we built in a couple of days before the climb.

It was really nice to get on the plane after the frenetic pace of getting ready, but the inactivity was difficult too. Movies, books and sleep were not quite enough to rest my flitful mind which is  continually working out mountain scenarios. I know that part of my  personal goal is to quiet my mind, but it’s more difficult when  there’s no physical action. Ah, the lessons begin before the mountain.

The team is tremendous as always. Director Amanda Stoddard, director of photography Patrick Reddish, cinematographer Mike Stoner, and multiple media manager Ryan Gass are excited prepared, and capturing footage along the way. For security reasons they weren’t able to catch  Bob More, in flip flops, giving me a piggyback down the stairs from plane to Tarmac. Bob, who was a fraternity brother and is the President of the One Rev board, and Nate Bryan, who ski raced with me at Middlebury and is our doctor, are new additions to the team. Along with Expedition Manager Dave Penney, it’s a great group that has weathered the day and a half of travel from US Mountain West to slightly sub-equatorial Tanzania.

The air was a soft, smooth 80 degrees as we disembarked into a deep darkness absent of street lights or almost any other lights. I’m writing in the Rover as we drive from the remote airport to the busy city of Arusha. Meeting our drivers, Peter and Kihigo, with hugs and handshakes felt like a homecoming after our previous two trips. The more people we get to know, the more connected we are to Africa and Tanzaia.

I hope for quality rest before the street corner preacher with the speakers, I’m sure he’ll still be there, starts his sermon at about 5am tomorrow morning. From the big, deep dark sky, to the friends, the Rovers and even that early morning preacher, we’re feeling comfortable and ready.

Thanks for all of your help.

Best, Chris

Summit day of my climb will be the most difficult. We will leave Kibo Hut at 15,500 feet for the summit at 19,340 feet, almost 4000 feet of vertical distance in only 5 kilometers of actual distance. Needless to say, it’s steep, and it’s loose and rocky. Bomba, my vehicle, is powered by the two back wheels. On the steep, loose terrain, it won’t power as much as it will dig trenches, so we need an alternative method of climbing the mountain.

Today, we’re testing and putting the finishing touches on the winch—a self-tailing sailing winch that will allow me to climb a fixed rope. An alternate chain will attach my cranks to the winch. Through pedaling, I will pull the rope towards me, effectively moving myself up the mountain. The loose surface will matter less as I roll along the top instead of digging in with the back wheels.

When we did our scouting mission in June, we used a winch really effectively. We hope that this winch will be more effective, but at the moment we’re still putting all the pieces together. I’ll let you know tomorrow how the winch testing went, and I’ll let you know how optimistic we are about that final summit day.

Big wheels were the term of the day yesterday. My climbing vehicle looked like something out of a Batman movie. Each of the four wheels was four inches in width—larger than a motocross wheel. The larger profile grew the wheels from 26” to closer to 29”. When my old wheels sat next to them they looked like toys—ridiculously small.

So we took Bomba, with the new Batman style wheels out for a test ride, and they worked great. I climbed up a steep pitch on rocks that were often bigger than basketballs. While it wasn’t easy, it was possible. The clock is ticking on us. Sunday is coming quickly, but we’re still working to improve the vehicles. Dave Penney has assembled a great team. A lot needs to come together in the next few days. It seems like a crazy situation, but I have a strange confidence that it will all work.

My greatest day of skiing I didn’t win a race. I didn’t even compete. It was a bluebird day in Vail, March 1993 with leftover snow from February’s powder, and I skied with my Middlebury teammates who were in town for the NCAA championships at Steamboat. One year after I graduated and four years after my accident, I skied as a peer for the first time. Part of the reason that I raced was so I could ski the whole mountain – so I could keep up. That day I did. This past week I broke the handcycle record for the White Rim Trail, and it felt a lot like that day in Vail. I could keep up. I could ride with my friends and others could, too.

It’s still dark when the alarm on my phone goes off, but I’m already awake. When I competed, I rarely needed the alarm. I don’t need it now either. I dress from the pile of clothes that I put out last night. The temperature will reach into the 90s today, but at this hour it’s chilly enough for another layer.

Tent down, bags packed, I realize I haven’t heard Dave Penney yet. He’s always up first – making coffee, rustling around. No one is up. That’s when I realize that my phone jumped an hour. Without service in Dead Horse Canyon, 30-plus miles outside of Moab, Utah, I’d risen at 4 a.m. instead of the predetermined 5 a.m. for a 6 o’clock departure.

At the top of Mineral Basin Road, light fills the sky, but the sun has yet to poke over the horizon. Misplaced car keys cost us 20 minutes. At 6:20, I start on the pavement that connects the two rims of the White Rim Trail. Rich green brush and grasses contrast with the red sand and rocks. The landscape will fade to monochrome in a matter of weeks, but for the moment, the low-angled sun runs its fingers over the rich color texture.

I aim to break the handcycle record of six days for the 103-mile White Rim Trail, and I plan to film it. We’ve brought a full crew with two cameras, producer/director, sound and support. My race to the finish will be punctuated with interviews and brief breaks to allow the crew to set up for the next shot. Part of me feels that this is a race, meaning that I should go as fast as I possibly can, but the more rational part understands that this is a long journey and that telling the story is as important as the ride itself.

I mark the passing of the first mile telling Dave, “That’s one of 103.” My comment seemed innocuous enough until “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall” got stuck in my head. After eight miles on the pavement, we turn onto Shafer Trail, my old friend. It had only been a year since my first introduction to the White Rim. That day I climbed Shafer trail in three hours. It was excruciating – hot, dusty, pitted and pocked, steep and long. That day I reached the rim of the canyon was one that I never thought would come. Now, as I start down that same trail, I know that I’ve made friends here. I’ve done the climb numerous times, lowering my time to a personal record one hour 11 minutes. Turning onto Shafer Trail represents the start of our journey, and it represents just how far I – we – have come in a year’s time.

I drop in hoping to average about 10 mph for the first 12 or so miles. Dave said he thought it would take me about seven hours to finish the 37 miles for that day. I hoped for about five hours. A 7-mph average would yield a five-hour finish, while 5 mph  would bring a seven-hour finish. I pondered these numbers as I rode, amazed that 2 miles per hour could make such a huge time difference. The beginning of the trip emboldened me. Cruising along the pavement and down Shafer, I think, we could complete the White Rim in three days instead of four, though there’s still the issue of our campsites. Tonight, we will sleep at Gooseberry campsite. The next night at the top of Murphy’s Hogback, just 15 miles further. I can’t make it out from the Murphy’s camp in one day so I hope to find a Ranger and that there is a cancellation at Potato Bottom. From there I could make it out in one day – though I’ve just started on this journey and I have no idea what’s in store.

Clicking past Mile 21, I tell Dave that we’ve now gone further than I ever gone in one day. We still have another 16 miles to go to Gooseberry. I feel good, but at mile 28 I start to bonk. I’ve been eating bars and drinking water all the way along, but it’s hot and long. The support vehicle comes up with some Gatorade. I feel instantly better. We’ve made stops along the way at Musselman Arch and other points of interest, but I feel that I will need to wait for the video. Occasionally, I look around, but much of my vision is on the dirt below me. My neck is the most sore part of my body – as I pedal I drop my head then pick up to inspect the trail, then drop it again, over and over each minute. It’s the only part of my body that really hurts. I vow to return for a scenic tour.

I see our white trucks miles in the distance, already at camp. They’re just out of reach, but I force myself to stay patient. From the very first moment that morning I fought the urge to go fast – to just get it done. I crawl into camp with seven hours of total time and 5:45 of riding time. It’s 2 p.m. –  time for lunch and ice for my sore right shoulder.

We sleep well that night waiting for Dave to start the morning. I sleep solidly as I’ve ever have on the ground. Completely refreshed, I still start slowly, conscious to warm my sore shoulder. Soft sand poses the biggest challenge. Unlike a big climb, it just drains energy. At one point I go from 14 mph to zero in the span of a few feet. My only choice is to shift down and move slowly – hoping to float over the sand. Pushing a big gear digs holes in the sand, making the going much more difficult. Patience – my greatest foe.

Murphy’s Hogback looms somewhere on the horizon, at the very end of the day. The steep, loose climb leads straight to the finish. It’s only about 400 feet of vertical, but I feel vaguely like the Tour de France racers I watch on TV – grinding to the top of something that seems impossibly steep. I climb quickly. On the bottom section I need to sprint – sprinting helps me maintain momentum over technical, loose terrain. I sprint and then I stop – my chest and stomach heaving for air. At the top, the trail kicks up to the steepest point. Our second cameraman stands on the rim above filming down. While I’d like to take a break somewhere along the way, the camera is rolling so I climb to the top. The sun is getting hot, but it’s only been a little more than three hours and just short of 17 miles. I’m not used to my day being over so early. We head to the shade tent for lunch. Everyone hangs around and maybe there was just too much hanging. The crew is caught in conversation. Something’s going on.

“They want to know if you will go again later?” Dave asks.

“Sure.” I start thinking there’s a chance to make it in three days, plus this trek is designed to be training. Adding a second workout just makes sense. At 5 p.m. we head out, starting down the other side of Murphy’s Hogback. Dave plans to go to Candlestick campground about 10 miles away. I target Potato Bottom about 21 miles away. If I make it to Potato Bottom, I feel like I have a great chance to finish in three days. I race the sun. We have three hours. The terrain is the most rolling that I’ve seen, making it difficult to match my shifting to the undulations. Still, my goal is Potato Bottom. We get a fair amount of downhill, still some soft sand. We pass Candlestick and I keep going, but the sun is dropping. At 14 miles, it’s time to stop. We’re still seven miles from Potato Bottom.

I wonder how realistic it will be to make it to the finish with an additional seven miles – an hour’s riding time. If we had made it to Potato Bottom then I could have started on the Hardscrabble climb. Going to sleep, I know that Monday, our third day, will be the hottest so far. Temperatures could reach 96 in Moab and probably more down in the valley floor. We decide to start early again, but this time it will start with a drive (far more taxing than riding) from the Murphy’s campsite to last night’s stopping place. Last night I bounced around like popcorn in the truck.

At about 7 a.m. I start next to the small stone pyramid marker that we’d built the night before. I make it to Potato Bottom in about an hour. Other campers are just waking or starting their breakfast as we pass. Now I’m on ground that I know. A few weeks prior I’d done the leg from here to Labyrinth and the one up Horse Thief Canyon and along the road above. It feels manageable because it is familiar now and because I did 37 miles the first day, but there’s a difference. On the first day I lost about 2000 feet of altitude going down Shafer Trail. Today I will gain about that same altitude climbing back to the rim, not to mention the ascent of Hardscrabble and traversing the “sand pit” just before Labyrinth.

During this part of the trip I feel a bit like I’m in “The Princess Bride,“ though instead of swordsmen, giants, rodents of unusual size, random fire, etc. I have climbs like Hardscrabble and Murphy’s, the “sand pit” and the heat. I have checked off a few, but there are many more to come. Hardscrabble proves less challenging than the first time I did it. That first time I’d climbed the far side first. Descending the side that I now climb, I didn’t think I’d be able to make it. A group gathers on the ledge overlooking the final, most steep and loosest pitch. The last time I’d done it I took the pitch in two sections, this time, with the audience, I feel that I need to really put on a good show. I do it all at once, amazed at how the vehicle powers through the terrain making my job much easier. At the top I nod to an older woman who’d watched from the ledge. She gives me a look of annoyance like I’d delayed her progress. Oh well, sorry about that. We descend from the top. It doesn’t go downhill as quickly as I remembered, instead rolls down and then back up. I really need a downhill at the moment.

The “sand pit” is next. I can’t remember how long it’s been since the last time I did it because it’s so different than anything else that I’ve done – it doesn’t fit into my continuum of space and time. I’m sure that it is shorter than I remember, but I try not to let myself think like that. To me it’s a living, breathing thing, and if I underestimate its power, it will make me pay. I shift into low-gear and pedal in the most consistent motion that I can. I search for a hard surface on which to put one of my drive wheels. Mostly, I just try to float across the sand. It seems to work. As I pull onto hard ground I feel like I’ve conquered the last really difficult obstacle, but there might well be that, “You’ve been mostly dead all day” moment, again from “The Princess Bride,“ still to come.

We break for lunch and shade at Labyrinth. When to get started again is the next question. In the heat of the shade tent I sweat on my sleeping pad to the point that if I sit up and lie back down I’m chilled. Still there is the draw of being finished – a margarita, a shower and a soft bed. Dave calculates that we can make it in five hours. I think three.

I fly along by the river, easily the fastest non-downhill section for me. I cruise at about 8 mph, pushing my big gear but still conversational. Two miles short of the bottom of Horse Thief I pass the spot where I’d stopped a couple of weeks earlier. That day I’d climbed back and forth over Hardscrabble. Upon reaching the van Dave said, “Why don’t you do five more?” I was already done, but not capable of saying so. That day I weaved my way down the road for my final five miles. Today I cruise that five along the river, but know that I will reach that point of exhaustion again.

I’m fresh at the bottom of Horse Thief and aim to make it to the top in less than 45 minutes. The heat really starts to beat down. I aim for the first bit of shade, where I rest and take on fluids. I’m pushing a big gear, the one that I pushed the last time, but I know that’s not really a good idea. I shift down to my smallest gear – sometimes rational thought has to overcome my desire to grind quickly. I use every shade, three or four of them, along the way. The rim seems so close and so far away. In my mind it can’t come quickly enough. Often when I’m going well I surprise myself with my upward progress. At this point, I fight for every foot, hoping that this is the last hard part.

I climb out above the rim and keep going up the road. It’s been two hours since we left Labyrinth. I think I can do the long tedious road out in an hour and a half. I want to make it to the top of the first hill before I take a drink. From there I think I can make some real time. I had done the first four miles or so before and felt like I’d gone much faster than I’d expected. Now I hope to average around 8 mph. It goes well for those first four miles, but then the road refuses to roll. It seemingly goes from flat to up.

It’s a slog – all I can do to keep moving. Quitting would be so much easier, but this is what I wanted. In a way, I’m looking for a spiritual journey – one that only comes in the depths of pain and despair. My intellectual brain attempts to find some greater truth, but really it’s moving to slowly to grasp much of anything. Dave and I have a metaphysical exchange while I ate a couple of bars. I say, “If I’m not moving, I’m not getting any closer.” Dave nods in agreement. In our fatigue, beaten by the sun, we mistake the obvious for genius. Maybe that’s the heart of our spiritual journey – lessons in the obvious. Armed with my newfound genius I plod toward the finish hoping to keep moving, hoping to get closer to the finish.

Midway through the slog I stop our support vehicle. “You need to radio those guys. This is what they want to see.” The camera crew had moved to the finish. I might have spoiled them along the way. While the trip was difficult, I was never in serious pain or difficulty. I never thought that I wouldn’t make it on any given day. Now, pain creases my face. Each uphill poses a personal affront. They need to see it, because this is what they wanted the whole time.

Mike’s the first to reach me. He says, “It’s seven more miles.” I’d been putting up a good fight, trying to measure myself to the finish, which I figured could be as short as 19 miles total for the afternoon session though I tried to convince myself that 20 was more likely. At this point, I’d rather be surprised by it being shorter than longer. In my mind, I played a game with myself. Mike’s “seven miles” meant a total of 22 for the afternoon – two more than I’d considered for the outer limit. I didn’t know how I would make it to my envisioned end, and I had no idea how I could make it two miles more. My speed had slipped severely. I’d hoped to average 8 mph. Now, I could barely muster between 2-4 mph. At this speed, two additional miles could mean another hour of riding time. I hope that Mike lied – okay, over estimated the distance – but resolve myself to continue. Continuing is all that my mind can handle at the moment. That saying, “Pain is temporary. Pride lasts forever,” loops in my brain. Whoever thought of that saying must have been sitting in an easy chair drinking a beer, I think.

The light begins to soften. The harsh overhead sun has slipped close to the edge. We crest a hill and Dave says something about a stop sign. I verge on delirium. Stop sign sounds like a mirage because it means the finish. I won’t let myself believe and then I see the parking lot and the crew. The sun is just about to turn soft orange off to our left – to the west. It seems appropriate that we should end with the day. I’m almost too tired to be happy, just relieved that there isn’t another hill for me to climb. Driving home the next day the sight of stepped hills on the highway causes mental anguish even though I have the benefit of a combustion engine.

The Record

I’d be lying if I said that the record wasn’t important to me. I’m competitive, though I know that records are meant to be broken. Someone will break my record by a large margin. It might even be me. There’s fat on this record. We took a lot of time to shoot and interview along the way. But, the record isn’t the most important part. Finishing in three days was the social victory that I’d hoped for. I pushed my limits on the last day, but otherwise it was physically manageable. It means that I could do a tour like the White Rim with my able-bodied friends as a peer, like I’d been with my Middlebury teammates that day in Vail. Hell, even Dave Penney said that he was tired at the end of the last day.

I don’t think that my record on the White Rim represents a great athletic feat as much as it does a new opportunity. When I broke my back more than 20 years ago I thought that I’d never return to the trails. Now, I think it’s a possibility for me and for so many others who accepted that same limitation. We can return to the woods and the trails and we can go with our friends as equals.

The Record Part II

Breaking the record gave me an even greater appreciation for the feat of Mark Wellman, Bob Vogel and Steve Ackerman, who were the first handcyclists to complete the White Rim Trail. I watched their efforts in “Crank It Up,” and I don’t think I could have done what they did. I might have gone faster, but I’m sure that I didn’t have to fight as hard. Thank you three for showing the rest of us that it could be done. 

You hope to stand on the shoulders of those who went before you. Our attempt at the handcycle record for the White Rim Trail in Southern Utah, couldn’t demonstrate the concept of standing on the shoulders anymore. It must have been 1996 or 1997 when Mike Augspurger called me out of the blue to ask if I wanted to become a test rider for his off-road handcycle. During the winter I used mountain bike tires on my wheelchair. I’d seen the downhill mountain bikes, but he said that his vehicle would be different. Marrying his trials riding experience (the guys who jump on and over all sorts of obstacles without putting a foot down) and ingenuity of building custom mountain bikes, he said his vehicle could go up and down anything.

The vehicle that I tried that first day looked very much like the prototype that it was. Mike had used forks and other parts from old bikes. It was called the Afghanistan model having gained its inspiration from a news piece featuring amputees from the Soviet invasion attempting to negotiate the rugged rocky terrain in wheelchairs. Mike knew there was a better way, just not exactly what it would look like. That first vehicle was crude. It took an assembly line of people to get me into it, yet it had the chest steering pad that would make the rig so distinctive. With it I could pedal with my hands and steer by leaning to one side or the other.

That day I became the first disabled test rider of what would become Mike’s One-Off Handcycle. With a lap around the parking lot of the hulking, old, white Florence, Mass factory now converted to bohemian studio offices for artist and progressive thinkers like Mike, I knew that this would be something revolutionary. I envisioned riding over anything, and with the fully engineered vehicle, I could. It changed the landscape of the wheelchair industry, adding steep, rocky uphills and uneven terrain to the rough-edges smoothed with pavement, ramps and curb cuts mantality. In a word, it was exciting, and I bought one of first batch to finally make it to the woods.

This past year Mark Wellman debuted a film called “Crank It Up,” in which he, Bob Vogel, and Steve Ackerman became the first handcyclers to complete Southern Utah’s 105-mile White Rim Trail, one of the most famous mountain bike trails in the world. First is so important. Like Mike, with his revolutionary vehicle, the threesome proved that it could be done. Think about that, three wheelchair users conquered one of the toughest off-road trails in the world. Conventional wisdom said that they shouldn’t even leave the pavement, but these three weren’t limited by conventional wisdom. They rode the vehicles, over particularly difficult terrain they dragged themselves and each other through deep sand and up loose surfaced climbs. Teamwork and willingness to do whatever it took allowed the three to compete the circuit in six days.

My team and I hope to stand on the shoulders of both Mike Augspurger and the three handcyclists. Our vehicle is a tweak of a four-wheeled, two rear-wheel drive vehicle that Mike built. We shortened the wheelbase improving traction and reduced the weight by almost fifty percent. How much of a difference will our changes make? I think it can make a lot. In the film Mark, Bob, and Steve had one of their most difficult days starting at Labyrinth camp, where they almost immediately encountered deep, almost impassable sand. Bob jumped off his handcycle, dragged it and a rope up a hill and then pulled the others behind him. It took them five to six hours to make it to the bottom of the Hardscrabble climb. A couple of weeks ago, I started at the same camp, climbed over Hardscrabble, past the Potato Bottom camp, along the river, then back over Hardscrabble and another five miles past Labyrinth in about the same time that it took them to reach the bottom of the climb. I’m not bold enough to say that we’ve changed the landscape in the same way that Mike and the threesome did, but I’m hopeful that we will be able to add to their efforts.

We think that we can complete the tour in four days—reducing the existing record by a third. Four days is significant. The average cyclist completes the tour in four days. Our victory will be both physical and social. If we can complete it in four days we will show that paraplegics can share one of the greatest mountain bikes trails in the world with their able-bodied friends as a peer—as an equal.

For me, the White Rim Trail will be my first big test since being hospitalized in January. I’ve never gone 105 miles in four days. Each day, starting with the 37-mile first day, will force me to go further and challenge myself more than I ever have. I see this effort as a great steppingstone for our Kilimanjaro preparation. It will tell us where we are and indicate what we still need to do. 

In history, Roger Bannister broke the four-minute mile, Sir Edmund Hillary summitted Mt. Everest, and Chuck Yeager broke the speed of sound. Many doubted whether man should even attempt any of these—whether man was even supposed to try. Mike Augspurger introduced us to the woods. Mark, Bob, and Steve showed us that a handcycle could complete the White Rim Trail. Maybe we can help bring the disabled communities from the shadows to the mainstream. We’ll aim for four days. It will be difficult. Temperatures will soar to 95 with no shade cover. Dust will cover everything. And I’m looking forward to the whole experience.

I apologize that I’ve taken a while to post this blog. It’s a good reflection of where I was about a month ago. I’m still training and still trying to regain the form I had in December, but the questions of health persist. I will attempt to catch you up soon.

I saw my doctor nine days after I left the hospital. It was sooner than he’d like, but my mother wanted to hear what he thought, and she would have been on her way back to New Hampshire if we’d waited the usual 15 days. But really, what difference did six days make? To the doctor it meant a lot. As he looked at me, wearing jeans for the first time since I’d left the hospital at which time I looked like Chris Farley complete with my distended gut hanging over belt. In the doctor’s office my gut no longer hung over my belt, greatly relieving my doctor. He’d worried that this visit might be about theory—about how he thought my recovery might go, and much of my time in the hospital consisted of how the doctors thought my recovery might go—but he didn’t need to worry, my recovery had already started. He said that I was well ahead of schedule. He even agreed to let me start spinning on my trainer—a bike stand that turned my three-wheeler into a stationary bike.

Talk about great news. I had assumed that I would need a strong lobby to start spinning in the beginning of March. I was already two weeks ahead and planned to train when I arrived home. Midway through lunch, exhaustion rolled in like a fog. My doctor said I was well ahead of schedule, but my body said I needed a nap. I headed straight for the couch upon returning home. The training session—yes I’d let myself start to dream—turned into a three-hour nap. My doctor’s appointment was on Wednesday. I wouldn’t get onto my trainer until Sunday, and then it felt like I climbed uphill in deep mud. Prior to my hospital vacation, I’d tried to rig the internal hub into the highest gear—increasing the resistance. Now, on the lowest gear I felt like I pedaled the final 15 minutes of an eight-hour day during which I’d bonked. I stared at the pedals, willing them to move, surprised each time they did—literally One Revolution.

I made it 15 minutes that first day. The next day I made it a half hour, actually breaking a sweat. Today, eight days later, I finally started to move—not fly, but the wheel on the trainer makes a whining sound when I get to speed. Prior to my sickness, I had to turn the TV all the way up to hear a show. Those first few days I left the volume on the regular level, but for the first time today I heard the whine. It didn’t progress to a scream, but whine was good. A whine was a start. Sweat materialized on my hairline. I breathed hard, feeling the effects of all those days when the pressure in my stomach extended to my diaphragm. When I yawn, the inhale comes in ratcheted gasps, as if I’m breaking scar tissue or stretching my ribs and lungs to get air in quickly. That threshold between full breathing and small sips of air represents recovery. As I pedal I set my jaw slightly off-center, allowing my incisors to rest on each other propping my mouth open to allow full airflow.

Building back the muscle and stretching my lungs are small steps. Figuring out how to avoid the problem that landed me in the hospital is a much bigger one. My surgeon returned my stomach close to normal. I am relatively healthy. He said that his expertise stops there. Even though no one has given me a concrete answer on what caused the problem, I’m convinced it lies with the urinary tract infections and the antibiotics used to kill them. I must have run an infection 90 percent of the time, only treating the full-blown ones. The UTIs drained my energy and the antibiotics stripped my digestive system. So going to the root, how do I stop the UTIs? I don’t know, but I’m starting to ask questions of the rehab doctors, the urologists, and I’m starting to poke around on the internet. I’m not convinced that there are tried and true answers—I welcome suggestions, especially those that work—just solutions that have worked for certain people.

From the beginning I’ve said that I wanted to be healthy, and as I feel better I need to remember to dig to the root of the problem. I see athletes, most notably Allan Iverson, with tattoos reminding them of their chosen path. I don’t have a tattoo, but I do have a scar that surprisingly looks just like the One Revolution logo. The incision jogged around my belly button (at one point I peeked under the discreet steri-strips, to see if I indeed still had a belly button) creating a mountain like bump, and reducing the size of my belly button, as if this whole thing were just some cosmetic ploy. At the moment, I definitely have a smaller belly button, a reduced belly, arms and chest that make me look 16, and a desire to find the answer. How many times on this journey have I realized that I’m just starting? Here’s one more. I’m sure it won’t be the last.

Side note: In light of the lying, cheating, ridiculous baseball steroids scandal, how great is it that Tiger Woods is returning to competition? On a list of amazing modern athletes, he has to be at the top, not just for his prowess on the golf course, but for his work ethic, his respect for history, his family priorities (he waited for the birth of his son to resume competition), and mostly for his ease in his own skin. I’ve never met Tiger, but I would like to. Welcome back and thank you.

This blog comes from our trip to Tanzania in November ‘08. It’s out of sequence, but I have many partially finished blogs that to me are important to the overall story. Periodically, I will insert them with current ones. I hope you enjoy them. Thanks.

There must be 250 dogs outside the window of my hotel, which is an oasis, a patch of green with a sparking pool and a fence all the way around, in a sea of dusty brown. The road out front resembles a dried creek bed with rock outcroppings and deep ruts where the last rainy season water carved its path. Cement-structured storefronts border the creek-bed road only wide enough for one and a half Land Cruisers, but that doesn’t slow the drivers, nor do the pedestrians, some in traditional garb replete with spears, stray dogs or locals on their one-speed Chinese bicycles. From the front passenger seat, each confrontation looks like a fatal head-on collision until the last moment.

Sarah Wallis, our Swahili speaking, Aussie/Kiwi, Tanzanian liaison told us, over a glass of wine, about a rash of burglaries in the area. One of the doctors at her hospital held off intruders with a shotgun. They shot up his lower level but never entered. The owner of our hotel offered his own story.

Even with those stories, jetlag has softened the edges for me. As I climb into my bed with the gauzy mosquito netting wrapping from above, I figure I can sleep through anything, but the dogs bark in a chorus that’s like a complicated domino configuration—first there’s one, which elicits a response, then another, and suddenly there’s a crescendo of yelps from every direction. I still feel that I’ll drift into sleep until it sounds like a little one gets sucked backwards into a blender—four tortured yelps. I try to convince myself that my imagination runs wild in the dark. It probably isn’t a moshpit of dogs outside my door.

Sleep comes, I assume, but I’m well aware of a seamless transition from the dogs to the streetcorner preacher. Armed with two high-powered speakers, he begins at 5:30 am. Later in the week he will start as early as 4:30. I can’t understand a word of what I assume is Swahili, but the preacher’s crowd rivals that of the dogs. At 5:30 in the morning, I wonder the need—the popularity—a developing country with a belief that the next life, life in heaven or whatever will be far better. I don’t know if that explains it all or if I can begin to comprehend, but that’s what I think lying there in a cocoon of mosquito netting.

Finally, I succumb to the inevitability of not sleeping. Dave and I head out the front gate, now open in the daylight, for our second training session on a brand new vehicle. The day before we’d climbed much of the first day’s climb on Kili. The first 2000 feet up the mostly pumice stone porters’ road took me 2:42. I didn’t realize how difficult the road was until I turned to descend. On the way up I only broke traction two or three times. Dave has worked hard on this new rig, an important prototype that weighs less than 50 pounds—a far cry from the one I used in June which weighed 83. We moved the rear wheels 13 inches forward so that my hip bones are almost directly over the rear axles, greatly improving traction. Almost all of my effort results in forward motion. This new vehicle rolls so much better. I can feel the difference, but with winter covering my training routes back home in snow, I don’t know if I’ll be able to figure out what that difference will mean in terms of speed and distance covered.

We take a left out of the hotel, then the first left and a right at the big tree. Kids in forest green sweaters and skirts or pants and white shirts—the sign of a public school all-stare. Mt. Meru sits off in the distance. We’ll climb to her shoulder before it’s all done, but first the stares. I say” Jambo, hello,” some say it back, others just look. The road tilts and we climb. I push hard always with the idea that I want to make Dave walk fast. Even at 7 a.m. people are up. A woman sweeps purple petals off her front yard with something that looks more like a branch than a broom. Surrounded by dirt, she makes it tidy.

We open onto the field where the Olympic athletes train. There’s a soccer goal in one end, a basketball court behind it. The grass gathers in clumps. Three sets of men spar on the basketball court—something that looks like mixed martial arts. They stop and stare. One speaks English. He’s most concerned with the training benefits of my rig because he’s one of the skinny guys. He comments on my arms tying a direct correlation to the vehicle. He’s right. This training has made me stronger, though we impress upon him that this is one of a kind, and we move on climbing higher.

Another dried creek-bed road brings us closer to Meru’s shoulder, which is shrowded in a layer of fog like a shawl. We say “Jambo” to those we pass. It’s close to the extent of our Swahili. Most say “Jambo” back. Some are headed to work, the kids headed to school. Music blares in a tiny, transistor radio way from the hair salons. Dave and I figure that that’s the place of excitement. On one uphill section, not a steep one, I make Dave run. After a summer of him walking so slowly uphill, this is encouraging.

Looking back, we’ve collected a group of kids. I feel like Rocky running to the steps of the Philadelphia Art Museum. The kids talk among themselves. I wonder what they say. I wonder what they think. I could be like a UFO in this neighborhood. By way of explanation Dave and I say “wheelchair” in Swahili, or at least we think we do. I can’t even remember the word we used now. The kids seem to nod in understanding. I still want to know what they think.

So many times in the U.S. I’ve said that from the time we’re little we’re taught not to stare at someone who looks different. In Tanzania everyone stares. They stare like I’m on television—like I can’t see them. They don’t stop when I wave and smile. They continue as if it’s all part of the act. I’m told they stare because I’m white, because I use a wheelchair and because no one pushes me. Okay, I can handle those, but what do they see?

Later that day we go to the market. The sun beats down in a way that makes me think of Matthew Brodrick in the movie version of “Brighton Beach Memoirs.” As he said, “It’s Africa hot.” There are no supermarkets in Tanzania. Everyone comes to the market for their produce. Sellers stack garlic, tomatoes, potatoes, rice, etc., in artistic formations on their blanket. Occasionally, I ask Sarah to name a particular fruit or vegetable, but mostly I look at the ground. As we turn the corner having passed through the produce, the clothing and shoes, mostly American knock-offs, and the sewing machines turning bolts of cloth into traditional African wear, Sarah asks me if I saw all the people staring at me. At first I have trouble answering because another hair salon blasts a transistor radio rap song with only one lyric, “Barack Obama.” Apparently, the soon-to-be elected U.S. president’s name is music in Tanzania.

No. I didn’t see them stare because I worried so much about flipping over on the rocky terrain in between booths. From the dogs, to the street corner preacher, to climbing to the shoulder of Meru, I was exhausted. The market was the final straw. I wonder if I would ever eat if I lived in Tanzania. And I wonder how those that we hope to help with wheelchair and handcycle donation do it.