Shelley Probber-my friend, my athlete.

My friend and former athlete, Shelley Probber now lies in a bed in hospice, in the final chapter in her struggle with Pancreatic Cancer.  I thought I would take a minute and share an afternoon I once had with her, high in the mountains- just the two of us. 

I met Shelley at a little, bohemian coffee shop in St Croix in 2011.  Shelley and her husband Terry were sitting at a table a few feet away from us at this shop and Shelley overheard the conversation I was having with Teresa on my philosophy on training for long distance triathlons.  She approached us, introduced herself and asked me if I coached athletes.  I said I did. We traded email addresses and a beautiful friendship was born.

Shelley came aboard as one of our athletes at IMJ Coaching soon thereafter.  She was meticulous with her training, so much so that she would find mistakes in the yardages I listed for swims I assigned and would repeatedly let me know when my 3200 muscular endurance swim was really a 3600 muscular endurance swim.  Details are Shelley’s bag.  I love her for it.  She made me a better coach.  We had a unique communication style as coach and athlete.  I was tough and profane, addressing her as “Probber” and was sometimes brusque.  She responded very positively to this style.  I loved our straightforward relationship.  Shelley was raised in New York.  She is a diminutive woman who grew up in a Jewish culture and by her own admission was afraid of her own shadow.  That is not the woman I know.  I know a woman who grabbed onto life with both hands and was onboard for all this life had to offer.  She trained hard all the way to her getting sick.  She isn’t one to take shortcuts. I respect her work ethic and attitude.  A coach had to be careful with her because she would completely disregard any pain or discomfort and train to injury, which happened more than once. 

Shelley was a repeat guest at our training camps in Boulder, Colorado that were 7-day, hard-nosed camps with plenty of volume in all three disciplines to include some massive climbs up big mountains.  One of the classic climbs we would take our athletes on was the iconic climb to Ward, a small town high up in the thin air.  The first year Shelley attempted this climb with the rest of the campers, she was one of two campers to not be able to complete the climb.  She had to turn around without summiting.  Later that day the other campers were out on our back deck having a beer and celebrating their day of training.  Shelley and I sat at our kitchen table exchanging small talk about the day.  I could tell she was disappointed in her performance on the climb to Ward.  I shared with her that failing while doing hard things is much better than succumbing to the enduring gravitational pull toward mediocrity and not even trying something that might be beyond reach.  Probber looked at me and tried to smile but started crying instead. I stared straight at her in my navy way and told her that this stuff was hard and hard is ok.  She blurted out in kind of a yelp that it was hard and it sucks to fail. That was kind of like breaking the seal with us.  We ended that exchange with a deep and authentic hug.  It made it ok and brought the moment to a close

A year went by and Shelley was back for another camp.  The day before the traditional climb to Ward, I had a chat with fellow coaches Ben and Teresa.  We quietly constructed a plan on who was going to take Shelley back down the mountain and where we would meet after the others had summited and later descended down the mountain.  Ward is a 17-mile climb and at the 14 miles goes above 8,500’ of elevation which makes it difficult to recover if one puts themself in the red zone with an inappropriate effort.  On that day, I took the faster athletes to the top and then descended half way back down the climb and found Shelley.  She was laboring but doing ok inch-worming her way up the mountain.  She was in difficulty but was riding above my expectation.  I rode in front of her setting a tempo to help give her a rhythm.  Neither of us talked, we just pedaled and climbed, pedaled and climbed.  I could hear her breathing starting to become labored and thought we should stop and recover a bit.  We clipped out and stood on the side of the road.  She put her head on her handlebars and was silent. Her breathing started to recover but because of the altitude, she was still short of breath.  I was starting to formulate my plan on how to get her safely back down the mountain.  I looked over at her and she looked at me.  We just stared at each other for over a minute.  She began to cry.  I continued to stare at her.  It was at this moment I knew she had a real chance to make it all the way to the top because I could feel her getting pissed off.  I sensed that she had it in her to get to the top.  She apologized for crying.  I said in a matter of fact voice not wanting to make more of the moment than what it was, “no worries, Probber-chicks cry.  It doesn’t mean anything.  Get it all out because we are going to click in and summit this fucking mountain.  You ready to get to the top, Probber?”  Shelley stabbed her cleat into the pedal, not looking up- “Yep, I am FUCKING ready!”

Shelley and I climbed together for another 50 minutes or so.  The first 30 or so we were quiet. I rode next to her to allow her to ride her own tempo and not force her to ride my tempo.  We didn’t say a word.  It was just breathing and pedaling-together.  As we got within 3 miles or so to the top, the climb gets really difficult.  Shelley slowed down to almost a stop, moving just fast enough to keep moving on her bike.  She was really suffering.  Her entire body was rocking back and forth to keep the pedals moving forward.  I encouraged her quietly- “come on, Shell.  Keep moving.”  She couldn’t talk. She kept pedaling.  She kept moving up the mountain but would slow to the point where she would have to move her handlebars side to side just to stay upright.  I went in front of her to give her a target to focus on.  I became more forceful now in my instructions as I was starting to fear she might give up. “Come on, Shell!  Come on, Shell.  Show me something, Shell.”  I began a running monologue to spur her on as she was responding.  “Let’s go Shell, show me something!”  “Let’s summit this son of a bitch! Let’s do this. It’s worth it!  Come on Shell!  Show me something!”  We did this for another two miles moving at a snail’s pace, but still moving up the mountain.  I was getting excited, as I knew what this would mean to her to make it to Ward.  She was in difficulty but still progressing.  “Come on Shell”.  “Tap tap tap, pedal, Probber.  Let’s go! Let’s go, Shell.  Show me something!  Pedal! Tap tap tap!”  We started to pick up a tempo.  I could now see Teresa, Ben and the rest of the crew up the mountain at the little store at Ward.  They could see us and started to scream for Shell.  Shelley could hear them.  She was getting really tired and was pedaling squares but I now knew she would not quit.  Shelley summited and was so tired we had to hold her bike while she unclipped her pedals and everyone hugged her.  The entire group was so happy and proud of Shelley.  We all went crazy! We were all screaming and celebrating.  I quietly moved aside and racked my bike at the little store. I looked over to see everyone hugging and congratulating her.  I kept my sunglasses on, as I could not help but to cry.  I was so pleased with Shelley’s effort.  Her unshakeable resolve to finish what she had started moved me deeply-it still does even as I type these words.  It was a truly impressive display of courage and pure force of personal will for her to complete that climb. 

I will forever remember Shelley Probber as someone of deep character and enormous inner strength.  I am a better human being for my time with her. I will remember swimming with her, riding with her, running down Alii Drive with her in Kona.  I will remember how relieved and happy I was to see her on Lakeshore drive late in the evening as she completed Ironman Canada in Penticton.  I will remember her laugh.  I will remember, with joy, our afternoon climbing together… all the way to Ward.

My life is better for the space she occupies in my heart.  May God keep you in eternal peace, Probber.  I love you.

Shaka,

Jonser

Thoughts on Oceanside 70.3

Relentless pursuit of something that yields negative consequences=addiction. 

Relentless pursuit of something that yields positive consequences=passion. 

It is amusing to me how I rarely want to journal or put my thoughts to keyboard quite as strongly as when I am training and racing. There is something about extreme physical efforts that primes my mental pump and gets me flowing. 

I retired from racing triathlons after completing Kona 2016. There were a host of reasons for this, but the primary reason was my promotion to Flag officer in the navy and all that would entail. Teresa and I closed our little niche business and moved on to the next chapter. I still remember running down Alii Drive thinking I should really take it all in as this would be my last time down the chute at this prestigious race. 

After Kona 2016, I flew back, pinned on my star in front of my closest family and friends and launched into the next chapter of my life. As awesome as it has been to reach such a profound life milestone, after a few months I let my physical fitness slide. Within 6 months I had gained weight and started feeling lethargic and fat. The last two years have been a struggle on that front. 

Last summer I decided to sign up for a race I had done four times before and had always enjoyed. Oceanside 70.3 (formerly known as Ralph’s) has always been an early season race that would get me out of the Seattle rain and put me in my most natural habitat- Southern California. It has been fun training with a goal in mind again. It has been very special to have my dear buddy Paul along for the journey as he and I started this sport together and I sensed he missed it as much as I have. It has brought us even closer to each other as we compare notes on our training via text a few times each week. 

The race in Oceanside went well. I swam through legit sets of waves into the sea and then stroked as hard as I could for thirty minutes swimming from the sea back into Oceanside harbor before starting the bike leg. It felt good to get out of the water running as fast as I could while at the same time stripping my wetsuit and getting ready to ride my bike. Out on the bike course, the sun continued to rise into the blue sky. I could only hear the rhythmic whirring of my disc wheel and the steady wind attenuated by my aero helmet smoothly, peacefully kissing my cheeks as I concentrated on staying rubber side down through the wet cracked and fractured asphalt on the side roads next to the freeway. I thought about all the years I have been blessed to do this sport and how grateful I am to be back right where I am supposed to be. I loved the way my legs felt as I climbed the steeper parts of the course with my breath leaving my body in a rhythm matched by the gear changes as I managed my watts to ensure I didn’t dig too deeply this early in my day. 

The run was hard for me as I don’t have the fitness yet to take on 5 hour races. As I ran along as fast as I could with the majestic pacific ocean off my right shoulder, the sun now high in the sky. Races like this bring me to this thought on contentment: even though I was physically uncomfortable and later transitioned to genuine suffering, emotionally I found myself whole, wanting nothing. I love feeling my body propelling itself forward in a pattern I have felt so many times before; breathing from my belly focused on running tall, belt buckle up, strong, sure, alive!  

Before I married Teresa, which has brought me my happiest years, I had this sport. At so many of these races, my buddy Paul’s wife Kaye was there cheering me on. I can hear her voice in a crowd well before I see her. Even though I never respond outwardly (karateman bleed on the inside!) her cheers always fill me with sureness and joy. This, coupled with my wife always giving me real time stats and a gauge on how I am doing, are so much a part of my whole race experience. It is one of my favorite things and always motivates me to give my absolute very best the whole way. 

On Saturday, my body made it to within three miles of the finish and then I reached the edge of my fitness. From there I just had to buckle down and tough guy it in to the finish line. Better to run ugly than walk any day!

I love our sport. A few years ago I let the business side of coaching and other distractions take away from the joy of just being a triathlete. I don’t need to race anyone else. At my age, I am not interested in that. I am racing me-past and present. I am running from things as much as I am running to things. When I finish efforts like I did on Saturday I feel a calm and internal assurance that I can still trust myself when I find myself in difficulty. It takes courage for me to jump into a cold ocean and swim through big scary waves heading out to sea powered only by my own arms and legs. It takes courage and skill to go fast on wet roads on a 23mm tire and stay upright. It takes toughness and concentration to ride at the same level of energy output for 2.5 hours. It takes toughness, fitness and mental resolve to run all the way through the finish line. In all these things I have to trust just one person. I only hold one person accountable. I love the honesty of the whole thing. The question becomes- can I depend on the one person I need to depend on to get through this test at a standard I set for myself?

I again renewed that trust on Saturday. As Jimmy Buffett states in his A1A album many years ago-racing “cleans me out and then I can go on”

Relentless pursuit of something that yields positive consequences=passion. 

Shaka,

Jonser

It is a thin line between quitting and going to Kona.

It has been months since I have taken a few minutes to sit down and write a post on all things Jonser, and the streams of consciousness that flow through this very limited grape of mine.  Typically, it takes big trips, big races or milestones of some sort that get me inspired to tap out a few words on whatever it is that has me pumped up at the time.

Today my mind is filled with thoughts on the next ten days or so.  As I sit here in the exit row on my airline blasting toward Seattle, I am thinking mostly about meeting my first grandchild, saying goodbye to my navy mentor as he moves on to his next chapter, and ultimately, my seventh trip to Kona to lay it down in the lava in 8 days.

I am not surprised to be a grandfather this early, as I got married when I was 20 to my first girlfriend who brought a beautiful blonde 5 year old into the relationship with her.  The surprising part is that it is my 26 year old son and his fiancé who blessed us with the first grandchild.  My son started dating his fiancé Jackie when they were sophomores in college and are more married than a lot of married couples I know.  Sometimes God’s timing is a little out of synch with the formal wedding plans.  I am more than good with it.  I am ecstatic about my son’s choice for a life mate in young Jackie.  She has quickly become another daughter to me and I love her with all my heart.  This young pumpkin she just delivered 5 weeks ago makes our relationship even more deep, as we are now inexorably linked for life.  It is an understatement to say that I am excited to get off this jet and see this baby Daphne in a few hours. 

A few of my friends that are my age (48) have asked what I think about being a grandfather.  Do I feel old?  Hell no.  I don’t feel old.  Why would I feel old?  I just kicked out 16 x 200’s on the 3:00 (in meters at altitude) on Monday holding 2:46-2:47 for the 200’s.  I can run repeats on a 5:40 pace when I decide to pull my ears back and go big.  I can ride my bike and hold 28 miles an hour when I choose to do so.  I still fly navy airplanes and get upside down and can pull G’s with the best of them.  So no, I don’t feel old.  I do feel older, and that is fine with me.  You want to get older, it beats the heck out of the alternative.  It is getting old that I am working hard to avoid.  My athlete Beatrice has been a wonderful example, showing me that I don’t have to get old.  She is 61 and climbs mountains in the thin air with us at our camps, swims 5k sesssions and is still dialed in with life.  Getting old is a choice, period.  My kids have been sensitive about not making me feel old, which I appreciate.  They recognize that Daphne calling me Grandpa is not really appropriate.  My kids Allison and Ben have always called me Pop, so Daphne will call me Pop Pop.  I dig it.

Tomorrow I drive back up to my old squadron to celebrate the retirement for Rear Admiral Doug Asbjornsen, my mentor and friend.  As I have written before, I enlisted in the navy at the end of what would have been my junior year in High School.  I have been blessed with a long line of mentors along my journey in the navy.  In 2000, I was seriously considering hanging up the navy at 20 years which would have been in 2002.  Doug was my Commanding Officer in 2000 and 2001.  Watching him literally change sailors lives while in command inspired me to start thinking about staying around and seeing if I could one day command a squadron.  He taught me exactly how to do it and was always just a phone call away when I needed advice.  Being there to participate in his retirement ceremony is hugely emotional for me.  Even after he was promoted to admiral and watching him command 8000 folks as the commander of all navy air reserves was so satisfying for me, as I feel like the navy really got it right with him.  They recognized this absolutely wonderful leader and human being, and they gave him the opportunity to impact all of us by being in such an important role.  I am blessed many times over for a lot of things.  Knowing and serving with Rear Admiral Doug Asbjornsen is one of the greater blessings in my life, for which I am hugely thankful.  I wish him fair winds and following seas.

So on Sunday I will get on an Alaska Airlines jet and blast off toward Kona for my fourteenth Ironman and seventh Kona.  If you have read previous posts, than you know about the challenges I have had this year in the form of broken ribs in April and a broken foot 3 weeks prior to Ironman Canada.  For a dude that didn’t even think there would be a race season in 2013, I am over the moon about racing Kona this year. 

Ironman Canada was such a satisfying race for me.  I emailed my coach, Joanna Zeiger, the morning after the race before the Kona roll down took place and shared with her how satisfied I was with my effort and how encouraged I was for next season.  After recovering from the ribs in late spring, I was able to really dial in some consistent and purposeful training.  In late July, I reached out to Joanna to help me with my riding, as I was starting to ride power and I wanted to tap into her expertise.  I have always been strong on the bike, but the way I ride my bike in a race needed her help, as I can be erratic and prone to overriding, especially on the climbs. 

Ironman Canada was proof to myself that I was still capable of racing solid.  I was quietly beginning to have my doubts.  I swam conservatively, but purposefully, and got out of the water in 57 minutes.  While on the first major climb, I downshifted to get in my climbing gear and lodged the chain between my cassettes and spoke.  Because I had so much torque on the pedal when I did it, the chain lodged in their big time.  I calmly got off my bike and tried to free it, but it wasn’t happening.  In races of old, it would be now where I would have a tantrum, but getting older has its benefits.  You just realize it isn’t life or death and there is no reason for histrionics.  I just methodically went to work to try and unseize that chain.  Out of the mist came two angels in a support vehicle.  The lead guy, Graham, who is with bicycletto out of Vancouver said “brother, give us your bike and just relax, we will fix this as fast as we possibly can.  Pee, eat, drink- whatever you need to do to be ready to race here in a few minutes and we will get you all set”.  God bless that dude.  I did all of those things and I was back on my bike with a huge push from him to get me back up to speed so I could just start pedaling and on my way.  I lost 11 minutes on the side of the road, but it could have been so much worse.  I told myself that I was one of the stronger guys in my age group and to just ride my ride and not try to do too much as payment would come due on the run if I did.

I rode a normalized power of 207 watts with my goal being 209 for the entire ride.  I was proud of myself for sticking to my game plan and not doing what I would have done a few years ago, which would have been to rage up that mountain at 400 watts to try to make up what I had lost. 

I got off the bike and my foot now became a real issue.  I couldn’t put all my weight on it and I immediately became quite concerned and doubted I would finish the race.  Anyone who saw me in the first couple of miles would have thought the same thing.  It was bad.  There is a saying that is in vogue right now, “keep calm and carry on”.  It has been my mantra for about 7 years and when things get bad in my life, I focus on this mantra and quietly repeat it back to myself over and over.  As I got out of T2 and started my run, I first ran into my buddy Paul.  He knew something had happened on the bike and I just told him the story.  I could tell he was very concerned about my foot.  I next ran into T who lied and told me I was much further up in my age group than I was.  It was a good lie, because thinking there would be 10 slots for Kona and thinking I was in eighth place or so, I thought alright, I know a lot of these guys had to of over biked and they should just come back to me over the next 26 miles- keep calm and carry on.

Knowing that my foot would be painful, I had put a salt container with some Motrin in my run bag with my gels, salt, etc.  Once I was out on the course and running, I thought I would start a steady dose of self-medicating.  I planned on 2 Motrin every hour or so.  When I went to put a couple in my mouth as I was approaching the mile 2 aid station, I inadvertently emptied the entire container into my mouth.  I said screw it and choked down all 9 Motrin’s.  What could happen…?

So I soldiered on and after a few miles my foot went numb and I just ran.  After the first lap, Teresa told me she had no idea where I was on the course but to keep going hard.  I did just that.  I was running with a navy buddy of mine, Mark Sortino- call sign Beavis.  Beavis and I worked together for 7 miles or so and as we approached mile 18, the pain was a 10 out of 10 in my foot.  I told him I thought I was going to have to pull the pin and let him go.  I started to walk through the aid station and hit everything they had- water, perform, coke, water, perform, coke, gel, ice.  As I got to the end of the aid station it dawned on me that we were in the middle of nowhere. I wasn’t going to get a ride back into town, I was going to have to walk.  Well, it hurt just as much to walk as it did to run.  So I told myself, “Jonser, don’t be a pussy.  Run back to town, the pain is going to be the same either way.  At least when you run, it will take less time”.  So away I went.  I noticed as I ran through the 20 mile marker that I was starting to run for real and I just let the pain be there and started to leg it for real to see how fast I could go.  I now noticed that guys in my AG were starting to come back to me in two’s and three’s.  When I hit 24 miles, they were all coming back to me quick and I was able to up the ante and run like I stole something.  At mile 25, Teresa and Paul ran next to me and told me that there was a guy 2 minutes in front of me.  This guy is a many time Kona guy and the bet is a good one that he was in the money for a slot.  I ran as hard as I possibly could with Paul next to me for a few hundred yards quietly and calmly imploring me to go harder.  He has done this a few times before and always with good results.  I love that dude.  He knows it.  I tell him all the time.

I was able to run down 5 or more guys in the last 6k of the run and caught the guy we were talking about with .7 miles to go in the race.  That guy turned out to be the Kona slot.  Thank goodness for deep roll downs and a little race karma.  As I said earlier, I was already good with my race.  I didn’t panic with a mechanical and rode within 2 watts of what Joanna had set as a target for me.  I didn’t give up and I gave everything I had on that day.  It is a very thin line between quitting and going to Kona. 

I will write more this week on why I love my sport.  For me in Whistler, I once again proved to myself when things get tough, I get tougher.  When I was a kid, I quit a bunch of stuff.  As an adult, I do not.  I finish what I start and I give everything I have in the effort to do so.  That is why I do this sport.  I get to challenge myself and push myself to a level that literally scares me sometimes, and then persevere.  I continue to secure a trust in myself that I am able to carry into other areas of my life and experience the same result- finish what I start, and do it with everything I have.  Like one of my assistant coaches, Rob Hilton, likes to say- “give it everything you got, because that is all you have!”

Shaka,

Jonser