Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Time for Some Cycling Advocacy

From today's Twitter feed from Bicycling magazine- a post on the Bicycling Mag forum:

"Victim in LA driver v. cyclists road rage case asks you to write to the DA today, prior to sentencing: http://tinyurl.com/ye77hl9"

There's an excellent post from Bob Mionske's Road Rights blog on the Bicycling website describing the case.

In a nutshell:

A Los Angeles-area driver (and physician, God help us) harrasses two cyclists, and then slams on his brakes in front of them.  One has a separated shoulder; the other has his face launched through the rear window. And- oh yeah- he's done this kind of thing before, to other cyclists.

He was convicted on seven felony counts stemming from this and another road rage incident. Another cyclist unfortunate enough to have encountered Dr. Christopher Thompson, Patrick Watson, is encouraging cyclists to write to the LA district attorney, Mary Stone, sharing their views on sentencing for Dr. Thompson, which is set to take place in early December.  You can get the information in the tweet above, or here.

FYI, here's the letter that I posted a little while ago: 

Dear Ms.Stone:



I am a 41 year old mother, wife, daughter, physician, and Ironman triathlete. I am a cyclist by choice, and a motorist by necessity.


I am writing to encourage the maximum sentencing for Dr. Christopher Thompson after his felony convictions stemming from a road rage incident which resulted in significant injuries to two cyclists.


This is one of the nightmare scenarios that I often envision before I head out on the road on my bike. My enthusiasm for a ride is tempered by the fear that “today might be the day”. What if that driver doesn’t see me when she’s reaching for her cell phone? What if that driver doesn’t see me before he pulls out of his driveway? What if, worst of all, that driver decides that I don’t belong on the road, that I should be on the sidewalk, and decides to “teach me a lesson”?


It is fact that we are allowed to share the road with motorists- it is the safest way for a cyclist to travel, as it allows clear visibility for both cyclists and motorists. Cycling on the roadway actually makes us less of a hazard, to ourselves and to others, than on a sidewalk or a bike path. It also makes us subject to traffic rules and regulations, which the vast majority of us attempt to comply with.


A large percentage of general motorists are ignorant of a cyclist’s rights and responsibilities, and are uneducated in proper bike-motorist behavior. We in the cycling community are aware of our role in educating motorists, and we know that much more can be done in government to improve and reinforce this education.


Unfortunately, there must also be consequences when motorists ignore existing laws protecting cyclists- as well as laws that not only protect cyclists, but all citizens, from intentional harm caused by another person. Laws which prohibit assault and battery- by any means- on another human being.


What Dr. Thompson did on that road was no different than leveling a loaded shotgun at those cyclists.

I am appalled to think that a fellow physician could fail to appreciate the damage that a moving car can do to a human being riding a bicycle. As both a cyclist and a Medical Examiner, I have seen the very grim consequences of these interactions.

Even more disturbing is the thought that the doctor indeed did recognize the possible consequences of his actions, and chose to act anyways.

I realize, of course, that Dr. Thompson is a criminal. His behavior is an exception to the behavior of most motorists on the road today. Despite their ignorance, most motorists will not attempt to maim or kill a cyclist because they believe that the cyclist is in violation of the law, however false that belief.


The Dr. Thompsons out there frighten me—because I know that one may be out there on the road with me when I ride my bike.


I have to remind myself that there are motorists out there like the trucker who followed my husband home, letting his headlights illuminate the road in front of my husband, who was caught on the road after dark one night, with no way to see well enough to ride home safely. He drove off when my husband pulled into the driveway, before we could thank him.


For the rest of the driving population, for those in between the two extremes above, I hope that the case of Dr. Thompson will draw attention to the challenges that both motorists and cyclists face by “sharing the road,” and highlight the need for increased motorist education. I hope that increased awareness and tolerance will prevent the Dr. Thompsons of the world from attempting to justify injuring or murdering cyclists like me, my husband, or my children-- because our bikes were simply in their way.


I believe that, by giving Dr. Thompson the maximum sentence, other criminals such as him will be given the message that intentionally striking a cyclist on the road can never be justified. “Because they pissed me off” does not justify assault or battery under any circumstance, including having to share the road with a cyclist.

Thank you for your time, and for the service that you have done for the cycling community in prosecuting this case.


Sincerely,

Janna Summerall-Smith, M.D.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

For the Guys in the Boomers:

I spent July 4, 1976, with my family on the lawn at Quinnipiac College in Connecticut, watching fireworks. We went home and watched the Tall Ships in Boston Harbor on the television. I was in first grade, and we commemorated the Bicentennial in my class by staging a musical production about the Declaration of Independence, me costumed in the mop cap that my mom sewed for the presentation.


My husband-to-be-in-the-very-distant-future spent that July 4th somewhere in excess of 200 feet in depth, somewhere in the North Atlantic, on the U.S.S. Nathan Hale, a Lafayette Class Fleet Ballistic Missile submarine. That was the day Allen received his dolphins: the pin with the paired fish that marks a submariner as Qualified in Submarine Warfare-- on the 200th birthday of the United States of America.

(My first true love, by the way, was also a submariner. I was five. He served aboard the Nautilus, whose home port was down the road in New London, and he was my uncle’s godson. He babysat me and my siblings, and spoiled us all rotten. I adored him. I wanted to marry him.)

For me, as a kid, being a submariner seemed glamorous and exciting. And you got to eat all the soft-serve ice cream that you could eat—how great was that?

My submariner-turned-husband Allen confirms the presence of the soft-serve ice cream machine, as well as an all-you-can-drink soda fountain— with no diet drinks. Eating ice cream and drinking sodas as one of your few forms of entertainment doesn’t seem quite as glamorous as I thought when I was a kid.

I guess when I think of those who served on this Veteran’s Day, the image that instantly comes to mind is a soldier dodging enemy fire in some foreign land. The danger, the threat of death, seems obvious and tangible in that mental picture—you can see the bullets and the bombs. The scene is a visual reminder that real men and real women endured much, risked much, and sacrificed much in the course of their duty.

But enduring much, risking much, and sacrificing much was not necessarily limited to those servicemen in real, honest-to-goodness combat situations.

Today, I am thinking of my husband and his comrades aboard those submarines, patrolling the oceans with a full arsenal of nuclear warheads at the ready—whose job it was to stand ready to deploy those bastards if the orders came.

Looking back at the complete f**king insanity of the Cold War, it seems obvious that the policy of Mutual Assured Destruction was, as the acronym aptly describes, completely MAD. First strike capability, second strike capability—reading up on the concepts in Wikipedia made my brain hurt, as well as pissed me off. Make sure you have enough firepower to blow the earth up, so that no one will blow the earth up. Excuse me?

As awful as it seems now, I suppose that it made sense, in some weird way, back then. And the men and women of the Armed Forces did what they had to do to enforce the policy that was believed to be for the greater good.

For the submariners aboard the U.S.S. Nathan Hale and aboard the other Boomers, staying submerged and out of sight with enough firepower to destroy several large cities-their mere existence a deterrent to aggression by the Soviets- was the right thing to do.

They may never (to my knowledge) have been shot at, but they endured hardships, and they sacrificed.

Utter isolation. No sunlight; no fresh air; no windows. Once the last bit of mold off was scraped off the last piece of fresh food, even lousier food awaited. Day and night ceased to exist, except as designated by Greenwich Mean Time. It was boring, and it was uncomfortable. And there was no way off the boat until the captain decided to surface- if you were sick and needed to be taken off, you had damned well better be on your deathbed.

Most importantly, they lived without knowing whether the call to battle stations was a drill or was the real thing, World War III, until after the exercise was over. They were forced to make routine the sequence of events that would bring on the destruction of civilization.

I really think that this was one of the worst sacrifices that they had to make—sacrificing their innocence, I suppose it was. Attaining the grim knowledge of what they had to do when they were instructed to do it….

When the Nathan Hale was scrapped, Allen said that he was happy to know it was gone. He is proud of his service, knows why it was necessary, and is glad that it is not deemed to be necessary any more. The Berlin Wall has been disassembled for twenty years now, and we all breathe easier. I don’t think that my kids will now the terror that many of us kids felt during the Cold War era, when the Doomsday Clock crept closer and closer to midnight.

So, to my husband: thank you for keeping this first-grader in her mop cap, and all her classmates, safe. Thank you for letting me grow up to take my own first-graders to the park to watch fireworks on the 4th of July.



(Note to my five-year old self: you did get to marry a submariner after all.)

Saturday, November 7, 2009

2006 Ironman Florida Race Report, or How I Raced Ironman Florida with Fuzzy Slippers, Hubig’s Pies and the Love of My Life



The day after:  note the pink fuzzy slippers, the Ironman finishers' medal, and (if you can see it) the engagement ring.


Today is  Ironman Florida, in Panama City Beach.  I wondered if I still had my race report from the last time I raced it, back in 2006.  Amazingly, it's still in the Documents folder on my computer.  For fun, I thought I'd post it.  Much of it is "you really had to be there"- lots of references to things that you'd only know if you were there.  Basically, it was cold, it was fun, it was 140.6 miles, I finished, there was lots of barbeque involved-- and Allen asked me to marry him that evening.

Hubig's pies, for those not in the now, are a New Orleans delicacy-- deep-fried turnovers filled with fruit, chocolate or coconut filling.  Check them out here.

The couple of days leading up to IMF were a blast. We had a great condo at the Summit, decorated in bright yellow with fishies everywhere, which proved a great home base for the race. We did our two practice swims in the beautiful Gulf (later, the really choppy not-so-beautiful Gulf), ate pancakes, hung out with our friends, and spent time packing the ol’ bags for the race. At the Summit Beer Blast, following the Beer Run, on Thursday night, we were given a handful of Hubig’s pies from our dear friends, straight from New Orleans, LA. Biggest decision was what flavor to put in which special needs bag ( I went with Pineapple for the bike, Apple for the run).



Weather forecast started looking a little dicey for race day--- breezy and cold ( at least for us Floridians). So I took some excellent advice and got myself a cheap pair of shoes to wear on the beach in the a.m.—fuzzy pink slippers with hearts. Best $4.88 I ever spent.


Race morning was COLD!!!!! Holy crap!!!!! Body marking was an ordeal- didn’t want to take my warm clothes off. Allen and I finally got into our wetsuits and shlepped down to the beach—him braving the cold, me with wetsuit, pink hat, gloves and fuzzy slippers! Sadly left the fuzzy pink slippers with our buds right before I entered the water (and the hat and gloves, of course).


Having never raced in the Gulf, I was not aware that the conditions actually sucked. I saw a stingray in the sand- that was cool. I made it through the swim fairly uneventfully- got knocked in the chest once by someone breaststroking—then into the changing tent—


I am sure I overdressed for the bike, but I am a big wuss when it comes to the cold. The Zipps were a little hard for me to handle in the crosswinds coming off the beach. The headwind, combined with the hills, was torture, but I knew there was a tail wind somewhere waiting. The tailwind was great, albeit brief.


I caught my bike special needs bag like I was a pro in the peleton, but then almost lost it and the bike- wheel went out from under me. Caught my balance again, then pulled over for the PIE!! Woo-hoo!!


I knew I had left the water before Allen, but didn’t see him catch me. Most likely he got me around mile 70- I had to stop and stretch our my foot and relieve the pain caused by a neuroma—I saw his bike in transition and was HAPPY!


Left T2 looking for Allen- cheered on by all the peeps on Thomas Drive. Finally caught up to him around mile 6-7—he was around 10 minutes ahead of me at the turnaround. I told him to go on and I would try to catch him….. which I spent the rest of my run trying to do.


Slow and steady run for me—nothing world class, but I was running when a lot of people around me were walking, so that made me happy. Didn’t recognize many people out there, but I see lousy in the dark.



Finally, rounding the corner at around mile 25.5, there was Allen, walking and waiting for me!! We rounded the corner and went in together, though a few seconds apart from each other so we could have our own finish--- I jumped up into his arms at the finish, alarming the volunteers who thought I was going to knock him over!


Apparently the whole thing was on the ironmanlive.com video feed, because we’ve been getting calls and emails that say that people have seen us smooching at the finish line!


The plan was for a big finish-line BBQ party with all our friends at midnight, but the cold weather, wind, and exhaustion had dispersed most of them. So we picked up our bikes, balanced our bags on top of them, wrapped our blankets around us and went back to the condo.


Later, after getting cleaned up and with me dozing on the couch and looking out at the Gulf, Allen told me he had something to give me- an engagement ring! The answer was YES!!


Next day, our friends came over for BBQ pork sandwiches, beer and champagne for our engagement party…..


An incredible weekend…..thanks to all our friends, family, volunteers and complete strangers who have encouraged us on all these months. I’d nearly given up, and dropped out of the race, a couple of times this season, with family and health issues. But I persevered because of the support that I received; the fact that I was now raising money for a great cause by racing; and that I knew that Allen would be waiting at the finish line for me…

Thursday, November 5, 2009

I'd rather go through childbirth again than.....

This is a big weekend in the triathlon community. Ok, maybe not for those triathletes returning from the Ironman World Championship in Kona, but for a lot of my buddies. There are at least two big iron-distance races this weekend, including Ironman Florida, in Panama City Beach. The Big Dance, we call it—a party with 2000 of your closest friends. A 2.4 mile ocean swim, 112 mile bike, and a 26.2 mile run. It is an extreme test of physical and psychological strength and endurance.



Discussing the upcoming event with Allen last night, I was contemplating my future in iron-distance racing. I commented to Allen that “Ironman is like childbirth—once you forget how bad it hurts, you’re ready to do it again.”


Later, as a seasoned veteran of both experiences, I began to consider their other similarities and differences. But, most importantly, I tried to come up with an answer to the question: “which is easier—Ironman or childbirth?”


My initial assertion: “Pshaw! Finishing Ironman? Try pushing a 9 pound baby out through a very small (and very sensitive) place. Now that’s hard!”


But, being a Libra, I am open to looking at both sides of an argument. So I have compiled a short list of the positive features of each event. I will let the facts (according to me) speak for themselves. I will leave it to others to draw their own conclusions.


Why Having a Baby is Easier than Racing Ironman:


1. You can eat as many Twinkies as you want in the weeks before the big event.

2. You get to lie in bed to do it.

3. You only need to push: you don’t have to paddle, peddle, or shuffle.

4. You don’t have to pay to do it (you just pay for the rest of your life).

5. You are allowed outside assistance.

6. No PowerGel.

7. You actually want  medical treatment.

8. The finisher’s award is way cooler.



Why Racing Ironman is Easier than Having a Baby:


1. You look way shittier after having a baby.

2. PowerGel tastes better than hospital food.


3. Much more crowd support.

4. You can actually sleep through the night in the days after the big event.

5. You are encouraged to keep moving, even while
wearing monitoring devices.

6. (Hopefully) not as messy.


7. You get to buy cool toys for yourself, in addition to buying them for someone else.


8. Being chafed down below really beats the alternate scenario, if you know what I mean.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Terrible Beauty





We call these "signet ring" cells, because they look like rings viewed from the side.  Pretty description, pretty cells-  bad, bad cancer.


And it’s back to the Chinese Buffet for more Fortune Cookie fodder. Fortune cookies, I am learning, are a great source of inspiration for blog posts, when life seems too mundane to discuss, and when the brain seems to be lacking in wisdom to dispense.

Today's fortune:

“Everything has beauty, but not everyone sees it.”

_________________________________________________________________________________


During the course of my workday, I frequently pop into my colleague’s office with a glass microscope slide in my hand.

“Look at this. It’s beautiful,” I’ll say.

It is invariably a cancer of some sort.

Cancer cells are basically cells that are growing on their own, who refuse to listen to the body’s signals and that invade into the normal tissue that surrounds them, get into the bloodstream like seeds carried by the wind, to land somewhere far away and grow more cancer. Mean, nasty cells.

Cancer shouldn’t be beautiful under the microscope. It should be ugly, and hurt your eyes to look at. It should be a great big blob of gray mush. But it’s not.

Under the microscope, cancer is pink and purple, because those are the colors that we use by convention to stain the cells so we can see them. Pink for the outside of the cell, the cytoplasm, and purple for the core, the nucleus. Pretty pastel colors, like Easter eggs.

Normal cells, cells that aren’t cancer cells, look like each other. They are orderly, and respect their neighbors’ space. Cancer cells, however, can be arranged in a marvelous array of patterns: swirls, whorls, bundles. They can march all over the microscope slide in straight little lines, and encircle nerves and blood vessels. They can make stars, bursting out into the tissue (cancer, of course, means “crab”- these crablike projections, these starbursts, are very characteristic of many cancers). The cells themselves can assume all kinds of fantastical shapes and sizes.


Pathologists, the ones that I know, acknowledge the fact that the things we find most attractive under the microscope are often the most deadly. The mass of long, spindly cells that have arranged themselves almost like the sky in Van Gogh’s “Starry Night” is a sarcoma, a tumor of muscle, nerve or fat, a tumor that has grown deep inside the patient’s tissue, sometimes reaching massive sizes before they’re found— discovered too late to stop the tumor cells from traveling into the lungs, or the brain.

I think that we pathologists also ask “why?” Why does “Starry Night” have to be such a horrible disease?

“Why” made me a pathologist. I wanted to know, needed to know why a person was damaged…why their lungs couldn’t take in air….why their heart ultimately stopped. I wanted to be able to trace it down to those cells down there, to the ones with the messed-up DNA. There. That’s why.

But some of the “Whys” still evade me. Why pretty cells make ugly diseases. Why wonderful people get ugly diseases.

Why don’t I know? Why can’t I know?

I must accept that all of my “why”s will not be answered.

I believe that it’s not meant for me to know.


Where were you when I laid the earth's foundation? Tell me, if you understand. Who marked off its dimensions? Surely you know! Who stretched a measuring line across it? On what were its footings set, or who laid its cornerstone- while the morning stars sang together and all the angels shouted for joy? (Job 38: 4-7 (NIV))