Happy Thanksgiving

I want to wish everyone a safe, healthy, and happy Thanksgiving and Holiday season. While it’s often easy to get pulled down by the many hurdles that we all face every day, the reality is, we all have a lot to be thankful for. On a personal level, this has been a challenging year. A year filled with loss, fear, change, grief, and crisis. But through it all, we somehow find a way. We adapt. We heal. We grow. We become stronger. We become more insightful with a heightened sense of perspective. And most importantly, we give thanks for everything that we do have and for our ability to navigate the storms. I wouldn’t trade my life with anyone’s. I’m a lucky guy, and I’m thankful in more ways than I could possibly bore you with here.

Whatever your journey, I wish you all the courage to start. The mettle to continue. The awareness to adapt. The willingness to change. The desire to give back. And the ability to appreciate.

Happy Thanksgiving

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Weekly Fit Tip – Set Measurable & Realistic Goals

Some people are Olympians. They have the genetic makeup and the resources to reach performance levels that most of us will never know. Don’t let the fact that we are not all Olympians limit your own dreams. Set measurable and realistic goals for yourself and don’t expect the same results as the pros you see on TV.

Be the best that you are capable of being. You may not ever be able to run a marathon in 2:06, but you can be a runner and you can run a marathon.

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Through Her Eyes

Here is the chapter in my book Relentless Mettle – My Cancer, My Rules written by my wife. She recalls her perspective on my leukemia diagnosis.

As told by Mary Grace Brown.

In 2005, we had an extremely difficult year.  Steve’s dad was experiencing increased shortness of breath and after being evaluated, he was found to have a very large tumor in his right lung.  An 8 pound tumor was removed, and Dad did well immediately post operatively, but had many subsequent infections and spent all but one day in the ICU at Bryn Mawr Hospital between June 8th and August 5th.

Steve had a heart to heart talk with Dad, saying he would dedicate his 2005 Ironman race in Lake Placid, NY to him, and wore his WWII dog tags during the race.  This particular race was difficult for Steve but we all just assumed it was due to the troubling summer and interrupted training schedule.  We would later learn that his race challenges were actually something related to his health.

A few weeks after returning from Lake Placid, Dad passed away. A few months after that, Steve’s mom went into congestive heart failure and needed coronary artery bypass surgery and a mitral valve replaced.  The mitral valve was replaced twice. The whole family was exhausted come 2006 and looked forward to a new year of healing.

Steve had a recurring enlarged tonsil problem and was treated with Prednisone tapering doses and antibiotics on and off for a couple years.  Finally, after months of the tonsils touching and impeding Steve from swallowing even peanut butter & jelly sandwiches, Steve thought he would have them removed. We went to the ear, nose & throat specialist who agreed that they needed to come out.  Steve thought he would have the surgery at a time when triathlon training was slower, so a February surgery was planned.

I will never forget where I was when I got the call from Steve saying that the doctor called him and said, “Mr. Brown there is a problem with your blood work. You need to see a hematologist oncologist.”

I was driving by Delaware County Memorial Hospital in Drexel Hill Pennsylvania at the time of the call.  I thought to myself, “He has an infection!  He needs to get to the hospital!”  I called the oncology practice at DCMH and was able to make an appointment for Steve with Dr. Stephen Shore the next day.  I called our primary care physician and asked if Steve should get to the hospital.  He said, “No, but keep the appointment with Dr. Shore.”

We were in disbelief that it could be anything but an infection, which after blasting with antibiotics; he could have the surgery and get on with life.

Our daughters were in high school at the time.  We wanted to keep them in the know, but first needed to find out for ourselves what this was.  The first meeting with Dr. Shore was a whirlwind.  He evaluated Steve, and his blood work, and gave his initial thoughts of a chronic lymphocytic leukemia diagnosis.  This, of course would need to be confirmed with a CT scan, a bone marrow biopsy, and further blood work.  Steve was amazing during these tests.  As a nurse, I thought, no problem – I can handle being with Steve during the bone marrow biopsy.  Dr. Shore was very tuned in to my feelings. He saw I was getting queasy and invited me to leave the exam room and get something to drink in the office kitchen.  I felt horrible that I could sit with patients in the hospital during such a procedure, but I couldn’t with my own husband.  Dr. Shore assured me that it is different when it is your family member and not your patient. I appreciated how Dr. Shore and the whole staff at his office treated us with such care.

At one point, however, Dr. Shore told Steve he would have to put ‘all that training and intense exercising aside’.  Steve assured the doctor that if he took away his fitness regimen he would be dealing with a lot more than just leukemia.  It was nice to see that Dr. Shore was able to meet Steve in the middle and encouraged him to listen to his body for cues as to when to rest and when to work out.  On a funny note, when Dr. Shore asked Colleen at his office to schedule his diagnostic tests, he told Colleen that Steve spells Stephen the right way….with a ‘PH’.  That’s something that Steve  has always been very adamant about. His name is NOT spelled with a ‘V’. My husband and Dr. Shore had and continue to have a wonderful way of communicating and sharing a laugh at just the right times.

The day Steve and I met with Dr. Shore for the official diagnosis was February 24th.  All test results led to a chronic lymphocytic leukemia diagnosis.  We were able to somewhat prepare for this through the week, but hearing the confirmation news was tough.  We went ahead and scheduled the chemo treatments.  Dr. Shore told Steve that this disease is not common in people Steve’s age, and there isn’t a lot of data available to give an estimation of survival rates.  Steve assured the doctor that he would set the bar for future estimation rates at a high level.  He was determined to beat this.

Leaving the office, we looked at each other and asked, “Now what?”  I said, “Let’s go see Dad.”  There is a bench overseeing the playground at the Veterans Memorial Park in Broomall Pennsylvania that was dedicated to Dad’s honor.  Steve was able to sit on the bench, stare at the bench, walk around the bench, walk around the park and I did my best to keep up with him with my short legs.  He turned around and hugged me – I cried – he said, “I feel worse for you that you are going to go through this”. Wow – for him to say that made me cry harder. What a special moment.  He didn’t think of himself, but for me. Then Steve ran fast and hard up a steep hill in the park and let out a huge battle cry. He came down and we hugged again, saying we were ready to do this together. And the next plan was to tell our daughters Jennifer and Danielle.

We picked up the girls at Upper Darby High School.  They suspected something when Steve and I both showed up.  I was a visiting nurse and had some flexibility in my work day. So it was common for the girls to see me, but not both of us. Steve worked in Delaware and was rarely around at that time of the day.

We rested on the couches at home and Steve, in his very positive, very upbeat way, told the girls he had a blood condition that needed treatments – he was not sick, but had a condition that needed treatment.  The girls looked to me and said; now you can tell us what this is.  They knew it would come a little more realistic from me, given I work in healthcare.  I told them the condition is leukemia – which is a cancer they both stated.  I agreed, and also emulated Steve’s commitment to fighting this and staying positive.  Jennifer and Danielle had a look of ‘deer in headlights’ about them and needed to process the information, but they also decided to follow Steve’s lead and stay positive during his fight.  I was so proud of them and how they rallied behind Steve.  There were tearful moments, of course, but they were so strong.

We next told Steve’s sister Chris, who immediately stopped over with a bottle of Merlot. Then we talked to Steve’s mom, as well as my parents and then had a meeting with my siblings.  I am the last of 7 Snyder children. My brothers and sisters decided to have a combination birthday and cancer fighting party, as Steve’s chemo was to start the next day. It was a great day of feeling united, supporting Steve and resolving to fight this together.

I bought Steve a laptop for his birthday, initially because I knew the original ‘tonsillectomy’ surgery would have driven him crazy and the laptop would give him the opportunity to journal and continue to write for the online triathlon magazine he was involved with.  He reached out to his long time race director friend, Rob Vigorito, and brought him up to speed. Rob was connected with some prominent physicians at the University of Maryland’s School of Medicine who took a look at Steve’s blood work and confirmed that the treatment plan for Steve was appropriate.  Rob was so instrumental in helping Steve with this new challenge.  It seemed like triathletes came out of the woodwork and reached out to Steve.  I heard Steve say that they told him he had very long tentacles in the community he doesn’t even know about.

One day Steve opened his laptop to Rob’s website and saw the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society Team in Training logo and had his ‘ah hah’ moment.  He reached out to the local chapter’s triathlon coach, Todd Wiley, whom he knew and looked up to as an amazing triathlete.  Todd welcomed Steve into the LLS TNT family of coaches and Steve has been helping train triathletes ever since.  I will never forget the first practice Steve attended. He was tearful when he came home, stating how he is helping people reach their fitness goal of completing a triathlon, while they were raising money to fight his cancer.  It was such a wonderful feeling.  “A win-win situation”.

During treatment, Steve had many phone calls, emails, and visits from people in all areas of his life: family, childhood friends, fellow athletes, college buddies, neighbors, all showing their support. Steve decided early in treatment that he would take control and run home from chemo to show cancer that it cannot win. He used visualization imagery techniques such as imagining the cancer cells falling off his back as he ran away from them, leaving them in the dust.  Steve was smart on the days he didn’t feel well or had a fever, and let me drive him home on those days (and I was thankful).  Our daughters went to high school right next door to the chemo suite and they made sure to visit on chemo days.  We were pretty sure they were skipping classes to do so, but there was no stopping them anyway.  They added so much laughter and fun and the nurses made them feel right at home. Every now and then they would ask me his prognosis, but I could only honestly answer them that this is chronic, there isn’t a cure yet, and we have to make the best of what we have.

One evening we had a visit from my cousin Sharon and her husband John.  They sat quietly and prayed. Holding hands, we truly felt the presence of Jesus Christ in the room, channeling through our bodies.  Even our dog, Chelsea, had an unusual calmness about her.  We sat and listened to very moving stories of faith and how Christ worked through people to bring about healing in many circumstances.  It was a moving, life changing visit.  Shortly after their visit, one of the enlarged glands in Steve’s abdomen reduced in size – and this was one of the more stubborn ones.

Our brothers and sisters brought dinners to the house on the long chemo days.  My brother Johnny was a school teacher in Philadelphia and his students wrote cards to “Mr. Steve” that were both touching and funny.  One of the cards read, “I’m glad you didn’t get dead”.  We could only laugh at that but were moved by the sentiment that this child wanted the best for Steve.  “Mr. Steve” was then included in the daily prayer at Johnny’s school.

Many people prayed for Steve, Jennifer, Danielle and me.  These were so appreciated, and got us through.  I truly believe prayer is so powerful and can get you through the toughest of times and situations.  We were so thankful for our faith and the faith of others in helping us cope.

Steve was given the awesome news after 3 months of treatment, that he hit remission.  We were so thrilled!  Steve asked for the 4th month of treatment to be skipped all together but we were assured it was necessary to keep the leukemia at bay. We started a little happy dance outside the doctor’s office that day.  And we still do it after each visit before taking the stairs (NOT the elevator) back down 5 flights to the

lobby.

Steve participated in a short distance triathlon in June, and then a full iron distance triathlon in September of that year.  WHAT?!!! He had chemo in June and then did an iron distance triathlon in September?  YES!  And the family was present at the finish line after Steve completed the 2.4 mile swim, 112 mile bike and 26.2 mile run.  The race director, Rob Vigorito, gave Steve the new name REMISSIONMAN.  Not a dry eye was at the finish line, or at the awards brunch the day after.

For the following two years Steve had to take maintenance treatments for one week every six months.  In 2012, the leukemia decided to show symptoms in Steve and he was again treated and back in remission. In 2013 he had another need for treatment rounds and responded well.  When the symptoms first returned, we were understandably sad. It felt like a thousand punches in the stomach.  We thought that there was a good chance this wouldn’t come back.  But we are so thankful that there are treatments for this, that there are newer drugs being discovered every day, and that doctors and nurses know exactly what to do and how to help Steve fight this.

We have learned over the past 9 years how a diagnosis as horrible as cancer can pull people together in such loving, positive ways.  Our friends and families are there for us at all of our fundraisers, and come up with creative ways to help raise money for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society, as well as organizations such as the Livestrong Foundation, Headstrong Foundation, and the Team Inspiration Community – who are all committed to finding cures.

Steve knows how much cancer ’sucks’ and living with it can be so hard at times, but he looks at it as a blessing in a way. This experience has brought so many people together in a positive way with a good goal, leaving a feeling of connection and love.  He often speaks to large groups and talks about how people get ’stuff’ and it is important how you react to the ’stuff’ so you don’t give it the power.  Steve also is trained to outreach to people who are newly diagnosed with leukemia or lymphoma.  I usually know when he disappears into another room to call someone, and when the call is finished, Steve has such a look of peace about him.  Helping other people really gives him joy.  It is his chocolate.

As hard as it may be at times, it is difficult to find a real reason to complain. I have a super positive, super energetic, super loving, super crazy (at times), super relentless husband who will not let this bring him down.  This has bonded us closer than ever.  He made it easier for us.  And so did the grace and blessings from our relentless God.

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Lost Brother

I want to wish all of my TNT brothers and sisters the best of luck in this weekend’s Philadelphia Marathon. As a 10 year survivor living with chronic leukemia and TNT triathlon coach, I deeply appreciate all that you are doing in support of the mission and applaud the giant steps you are taking in physical and emotional growth by expanding your horizon and your comfort zone. You all have your reasons for racing on Sunday. Some are more personal and close to home than others, but every reason matters.

The beauty of working with this organization is that it connects you with some amazing people, all of whom are committed to eradicating blood cancers. There is strength in our numbers but sadly, we sometimes lose a precious life in that battle. We lost one yesterday in Marshall Jensen. Marshall hailed from Utah but Philadelphia was his second home when it came to treatment therapy and was a close friend to LLS and the HEADstrong Foundation.

While I only knew Marshall for a couple of short years, I very quickly saw the light in his spirit, the fight in his soul, and the love in his heart. Marshall was one of us. Marshall was a soldier in this war who saw his share of battle. Marshall is pain free and can now rest. But the rest of us will not. A loss like Marshall’s only fuels our resolve to make this stuff go away.  And rest assured that Marshall’s memory and his “reason” will keep us all moving towards our common goal.

I will also be racing on Sunday, wearing my black “SURVIVOR” shirt and my Stand up 2 Cancer buff. And now I will add the words “For Marshall” on the back of my shirt. So, TNT family, my ask of you is to simply please add Marshall to your many reasons for racing. Please keep Marshall and his beautiful family in your thoughts as we all forge on to try to make a different in the crazy world. I think it’s safe to say that Marshall thanks you for all that you are doing in this fight.

See you Sunday. #GOTEAM #BERELENTLESS

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Rewind – My Diagnosis

An excerpt by my book “Relentless Mettle – My Cancer, My Rules”

I received my calling into the world of endurance sports in 1986 when a friend invited me to do a triathlon with him. I scrambled to borrow a bike and a helmet and had no idea what else to wear but was instantly drawn in and addicted to what I saw on race day. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what made these people tick, but I knew I wanted to be one of them.

I continued racing shorter races but it wasn’t too long before I worked my way up to marathons and eventually ironman triathlons. I was healthy. I was happy. And I felt like I was setting good examples of healthy living for my kids who came to so many of my races and crossed so many finish lines with me. That was my lifestyle for 20 years. –And it was a good one. But we live in a world of perpetual change, often unaware of what may lie ahead.

2005 proved to be a very challenging year. My father had a large tumor removed and spent two months in intensive care as a result of complications from the surgery. We were at that hospital nearly every day and sadly we lost him in August of 2005. Still grieving the loss of my dad, yet attempting to usher in the Christmas spirit, my mom was rushed to the very same hospital needing triple bypass and aortic valve replacement surgery. That valve needed to be replaced a second time within days as it was malfunctioning. This meant two open heart surgeries within days for my then 80 year old mother. Somehow, that surgery and her subsequent recovery were successful. But it was an emotionally draining period of time. We were ready to flip the calendars to 2006 and embrace the New Year with renewed hope.

In early 2006 I started having difficulty swallowing. This worsened to the point of having trouble simply swallowing anything at all. I tried a number of things to try to treat these symptoms, but nothing seemed to give me any sustained relief. Eventually, I saw an ear, nose, and throat doctor who immediately ordered a tonsillectomy. That was not how I wanted to spend my 46th birthday but I was willing to accept the surgery if it was going to resolve the problem. In preparation for surgery, I needed to have preoperative blood work drawn and this is where the slope got slippery.  I received a phone call a few days prior to the scheduled surgery and was told that my tonsillectomy would need to be put on hold. There had been a problem detected in my blood work and I was advised to consult an oncologist.

Cancer. It happens. It happened to me. On February 24th 2006 my wife and I sat in the office of an oncologist who we had just met and tried to process what he was telling us. I had chronic lymphocytic leukemia (“CLL”). This would require several weeks of chemotherapy and then two years of follow up treatments. And even that wouldn’t “cure” the disease as it is a chronic blood cancer that would need to be lived with and managed. This diagnosis came out of the blue. My initial and desperate thought was that some sick person’s chart clearly must have been mixed up with mine. It wasn’t. The chart was mine and I was that sick person.

My perspective on cancer was always that it was something that happened to others. An athlete like me doesn’t get sick. I was an Ironman, several times over. I grew up one of those active kids who played every sport that I could sink my teeth into. I attended college on a soccer scholarship. I hung on the fringe of a pro soccer career and then played semi professionally for a number of years.  I lived clean and healthy. So I assumed that I of all people should get a free pass on disease like cancer. I was wrong.

So with every possible emotion spiraling in a mad freefall, I began the first of four one week long rounds of chemotherapy at our local hospital. I hit some physical and emotional dark patches but they certainly weren’t all dark. These patches were cyclical and interspersed with rays of hope and positivity. Things got better. My tolerance to the treatment drugs improved and I started showing signs of progress. By the 3rd round my blood counts were slowly returning to normal and I had reached my first remission.

We made a party out of chemo whenever we could. We made it an event. My wife came to every treatment. My daughters occasionally skipped school to come hang out with us and we would often all eat lunch together in the chemo suite. And I always needed to try to be the class clown to add a little levity to the situation. But that’s who I am in almost any situation.

As I reconciled everything that I was experiencing, I made a few key decisions that both kept me sane and at the same time changed my life. One was to practice the simple adage of controlling the things I could control. I couldn’t control the diagnosis. But I could control a lot of how I reacted to that diagnosis. In that respect, my thought process was exactly the same as it is on race day. I drew many parallels between the challenges I was facing with the disease and the challenges we all face in sport, and in life.

Within days of my diagnosis, I signed on as a triathlon coach with The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society’s Team in Training program. Through this program, I get to train aspiring and veteran triathletes who are in turn raising funds and awareness for my blood cancer. It has been a magical partnership and I have been blessed to meet and work with some incredible people through the years. The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society has funded many breakthrough therapies in the global fight against blood cancers and provides many crucial resources to patients and their families. At the center of all of this, is Team in Training. They have truly become a second family to me.

Another critical decision I made was to remain in motion.  I have learned through the years that I am always happiest when I am moving. I’ve never known if I am running towards or away from something, but when I am moving, I am whole. It is more than just a way to stay in shape. It is how I have always coped and it is my therapy. So I held onto that and kept up my training through my treatments – often running home from chemo. I made it part of a game. I challenged the disease back and made up some of my own rules of engagement.

The combination of effective drugs, a great medical team, an amazing support crew, and a good mindset allowed me to remain in some kind of shape while beating cancer. I was fortunate in that I was able to race and train throughout my diagnosis and subsequent treatments.  Shortly after my first round of treatments, I was back to racing again and seven months post diagnosis I raced the Chesapeakeman Ultra distance triathlon as race director and good friend Rob Vigorito proudly and with much emotion dubbed me “RemissionMan”.

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Weekly Fit Tip – Have a Plan but Be Flexible

On the subject of exercise plans … yes, plans are good. Have a plan, but be flexible. Consider the plan to be your high level road map guiding you to your destination. But be prepared to react to those unexpected road closures and delays. An  adjustment to or deviation from your plan is not necessarily a “failure” to stick to the plan. Flexibility and adaptability are key elements to your success, in fitness and in life.

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The Thing About Derek

Many of you have been following the journey of Derek Fitzgerald. Derek is a Philadelphia area cancer survivor and a heart transplant recipient who has turned obstacle into opportunity, and limitation into victory.
I first met Derek 4 years ago through The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society’s Team in Training program where as a survivor living with chronic leukemia, I get much joy in coaching their triathlon program. Derek had been training for his first half marathon and we were connected at the race expo in Philly. His enthusiasm impressed me. And as he talked about his future goals in the endurance sports world, his dreams impressed me as well. I would quickly learn that Derek’s dreams were not dreams at all. They were calculated and well thought out plans.
As a guy who has raced over a dozen ironman triathlons and at that time 24 marathons, those kind of accomplishments don’t typically impress me very easily. But Derek impressed me. I think it was the pure joy and excitement that he radiated having been given a third chance in life.
Derek’s race resume continued to grow from century rides, to marathons, and ultimately to the ironman. I had the pleasure of coaching Derek when he again came through our Team in Training’s triathlon program. And we’ve had the opportunity to work together or support one another on a number of initiatives in the blood cancer community.
Most recently, Derek was given the golden opportunity to represent Team in Training at the Ironman World Championship in Kona. Derek represented and did so with pride. He represented TNT. He represented Penn Medicine. He represented himself. He represented his amazingly supportive family. And most importantly, he represented the one person who has made it all possible. A person he will never know, but one Derek has made it his mission to honor – his donor.
So the thing about Derek is that he has accomplished all  this with a quiet and unassuming sense of humility and appreciation. Derek has given a face and yes, a beating heart, to the word miracle. He marches on to his meet his next challenge while thanking those around him who have gotten him this far.
And he does this not for accolades. He does this because he feels it’s what he needs to do. He does this because he wants people to understand that in life, all things are possible.
In life, miracle can happen. They happened to Derek Fitzgerald.

Many of you have been following the journey of Derek Fitzgerald. Derek is a Philadelphia area cancer survivor and a heart transplant recipient who has turned obstacle into opportunity, and limitation into victory.

I first met Derek 4 years ago through The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society’s Team in Training program where as a survivor living with chronic leukemia, I get much joy in coaching their triathlon program. Derek had been training for his first half marathon and we were connected at the race expo in Philly. His enthusiasm impressed me. And as he talked about his future goals in the endurance sports world, his dreams impressed me as well. I would quickly learn that Derek’s dreams were not dreams at all. They were calculated and well thought out plans.

As a guy who has raced over a dozen ironman triathlons and at that time 24 marathons, those kind of accomplishments don’t typically impress me very easily. But Derek impressed me. I think it was the pure joy and excitement that he radiated having been given a third chance in life.

Derek’s race resume continued to grow from century rides, to marathons, and ultimately to the ironman. I had the pleasure of coaching Derek when he again came through our Team in Training’s triathlon program. And we’ve had the opportunity to work together or support one another on a number of initiatives in the blood cancer community.

Most recently, Derek was given the golden opportunity to represent Team in Training at the Ironman World Championship in Kona. Derek represented and did so with pride. He represented TNT. He represented Penn Medicine. He represented himself. He represented his amazingly supportive family. And most importantly, he represented the one person who has made it all possible. A person he will never know, but one Derek has made it his mission to honor – his donor.

So the thing about Derek is that he has accomplished all  this with a quiet and unassuming sense of humility and appreciation. Derek has given a face and yes, a beating heart, to the word miracle. He marches on to his meet his next challenge while thanking those around him who have gotten him this far.

And he does this not for accolades. He does this because he feels it’s what he needs to do. He does this because he wants people to understand that in life, all things are possible.

In life, miracle can happen. They happened to Derek Fitzgerald.

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Weekly Fit Tip – Choose the Right Plan

Many people are overwhelmed at the concept of starting an exercise program. My advice to you is to keep it simple. There is a plan out there for everyone. By starting out with manageable goals there is a greater likelihood that you will stick to your plan. Strive for a balanced attack on fitness which consists of both approved strength training and aerobic conditioning programs.

Choose the right plan!

Set the right goals!

Achieve maximum potential!

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What This Stuff is About

I’m doing a talk for a local triathlon club early next year. Among the many points I hope will resonate is that this stuff isn’t about how many medals you collect or what your M-Dot tattoo looks like.

It’s not about your time compared to someone else’s. It’s not about the price of your ride, how many functions your GPS has or PRs.

It’s not about which coach you hired or what your training mileage looks like. While that all may seem important, it’s not.

It’s about what you can learn about yourself in the process. Its about evolving. Its about self awareness. And self actualization.  It’s about what you can give back.

It’s about humility first and pride second. And all of those accomplishments are carried on the inside. Be proud. But be humble.

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Big Climb Philly

I felt it was time to jump into something a little different. So next year I thought it would be fun to take part in Big Climb Philly and climb the tallest building in the city. This is a Leukemia & Lymphoma Society event and our efforts go to LLS’s funding of treatment options for those living with blood cancer. Pretty close to home, huh? You can join in on the fun or support me with a modest donation. And thank you!!

Click HERE for my fundraising site.

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