Finding Ultra (21 page)

I'm nothing special. But I
am
an Ultraman
.

The one thing missing from that perfect experience? Only the most important people in my life—the rest of my family. I'd thought having them there would be too much—both financially and emotionally. But as I stood on that finish line, I missed them all terribly. I couldn't believe they weren't there to embrace. A regrettable error in judgment I wouldn't repeat.

Next year
.

I took the entire winter off to allow my body to heal—and also to restore some normalcy in my life. After training so relentlessly, I desperately needed a break. And I deserved it.

Unfortunately, our financial struggles resumed.

Determined to refill the family piggy bank, I canceled my dream of returning to Ultraman in 2009. That chapter was closed. I'd
achieved my goal by just completing the event. I had nothing more to prove. It was time to focus on
real life. Forget all this time-sucking endurance nonsense and grow up
, I told myself.
Because what is a man if he can't make ends meet?
But as I woke one spring morning after yet another restless night, Julie took one look at my forlorn expression and sized me up with a simple sentence.

“It's time for you to get back on the bike.”

It didn't make logical sense. Yet from her unique perspective, it was the
only
solution.
Pursue what's in your heart, and the universe will conspire to support you
.

So what can I say? I did as I was told. On a weekday morning that normally would have been spent chained to a desk, I mounted my bike for the first time in months and began pedaling toward the Santa Monica Mountains. Soon I was ascending Topanga Canyon, and as the sun rose into the clear blue skies above the ridgeline, I spotted a hawk. In a perfect symbiosis of air and wing, the majestic bird sailed its perfect arc across the morning sky. And that's when I understood. If I could summon the courage to pursue my passion with purpose and without fear, I, too, could experience such synchronicity. Somehow, everything would work out.

So with that insight to fortify me, and buttressed by the encouragement of Julie, I decided to resume training, with a keen eye on returning to Ultraman. No longer would the goal be just to finish, but, rather, to contend.

Meanwhile, I was starting to get noticed. Astonishingly,
Men's Fitness
magazine named me as one of their “25 Fittest Men in the World”—celebrating me as an everyman triumph. It was heady stuff indeed to be grouped with such athletic luminaries as Rafael Nadal, Usain Bolt, and LeBron James. The piece prompted a slew of interview requests. Even
The Dr. Oz Show
called. And Dr. Sanjay Gupta gave me a shout-out on CNN, noting my plant-based
diet as a key to my athletic accomplishments.
How is this happening to me?
I thought. It all seemed surreal.
Maybe the universe had a plan for me after all
.

Just as precipitously, though, the rug was pulled out from underneath me. And I almost lost everything. Forever.

Just outside of Ojai, I was pedaling strong, about 70 miles into my first 130-mile ride of the season, energized by the power I was feeling in my legs and pondering excitedly what the season might bring. Then something went wrong. I have no memory of what exactly transpired, but my next recollection was of slowly awakening from a total blackout. Tangled in the spokes of my bike, bloodied and unable to move, I opened my eyes to peer up through blurred vision at two elderly ladies coming to my aid.
What happened?

“Call an ambulance!” commanded a voice.

A crash
, I realized. But how? Somehow I'd gone over my handlebars—hit an unforeseen bump in the road, perhaps. Or simply lost my balance. It doesn't take much. But I couldn't remember anything. And then everything went black.

My next impression was coming to in the hospital, confused by my surroundings and searching for clues until I slowly realized it was Julie and my then five-year-old daughter, Mathis, leaning over my bedside. Squinting up at them, I began tearing up, a frail sense of mortality coming into focus and overpowering my emotions. I'd suffered a severe concussion, but my disfigured face had borne the brunt of the impact. With my nose mangled and my lips split wide open and monstrously swollen, Mathis had to turn away. To this day, I still have no feeling in my lower lip. But I was lucky, the doctor said. I could have easily snapped my neck.

Convalescing in that hospital bed, I couldn't help but once again call into question the course I'd set for myself. Physically I was broken. Financial struggles continued to plague me. I was at a crossroads professionally. And spiritually, I suddenly felt lost.

Taking note of my distress, Julie leaned down, kissed my forehead, and presented me with a question.
The question
.

“So if that was it, would you be satisfied with how you'd pursued your life?”

I grew quiet, digging deep for a response. The bizarre mash-up of unexpected public accolades and private struggles exacerbated my disorientation. On the one hand, I seemed to be risking death—though prior to the crash I hadn't thought of it that way. Yet when the crash occurred, there was no doubt that I was doing what I loved. As I lay there, looking into Julie's eyes, I knew the answer.

“Yes.”

Most spouses probably would have pleaded for a return to a more secure existence: life with a nine-to-five husband, two weeks of annual vacation, and barbecues on the weekend. There's nothing inherently wrong with that. But that's not Julie. And I wasn't ready to accept that either.

“I'm so happy to hear you say that,” she murmured.

Because she understood what I was only then coming to realize—that safety isn't just an illusion, it's a cop-out. I know it sounds trite, but there's simply nothing like a near-death experience to remind one of the impermanence of everything. And living imprisoned by fear only to die with regret over dreams postponed was a life neither of us was interested in.

The crash was a blessing, forging in me a redoubled determination to push my body to new levels of strength and endurance. And as the story of my middle-aged transformation began going viral, I realized that it was inspiring positive change in others. That especially came into focus in July 2009 when I was asked by Dr. Sanjay Gupta's producer Danielle Dellorto to write a short article on my metamorphosis for
CNN.com
. No big deal, I thought. But to my amazement, the piece became the most e-mailed health story on the network's website for a few days running. Overnight, my little
blog—which I'd thought of as a private confessional—went from getting close to zero traffic to garnering more than 200,000 unique page views. But what changed everything for me were the 400-plus e-mails I received from people all over the world, many of them intimate accounts of their own health struggles.

Newly focused, Julie and I—and even the kids—cut extraneous expenses and used creativity to meet our needs. The expensive Volvo was replaced by an old Ford Bronco and a dinged-up minivan. Whole Foods excursions were discarded in favor of purchasing foods in bulk and from local farmer's markets. Julie began selling her photographs and paintings, and little Mathis even offered up her proud creative offerings. Increasingly, as a family, we began to tackle obstacles more as a fun board game than an ominous burden, with the overall tone set largely by Julie.

What's the worst thing that can happen?
she'd ask.
We're healthy. In love. Living life according to our own rules. And that's all that matters. Everything else is just stuff
.

Putting this philosophy into action worked. Each successive week I broke new ground in training, surpassing every strength and fitness benchmark I'd set the previous year. And as summer turned to fall, our fragile economic state seemed on the mend. Perhaps most remarkable of all, without taking my eye off my primary mission, my law practice actually expanded. Come October, I was ready, focused, and prepared for the next opportunity to push the boundaries of endurance.

The Doppelgange
r.
A victim of heart disease, my grandfather Richard Spindle, a champion swimmer who narrowly missed a 1928 Olympics berth, died far too young. As his namesake and one who has carried on his athletic legacy, I feel his presence with me everywhere I go.

Too Sexy for My Eye Patch.
Cross-eyed since birth and weak throughout my early years, I was never projected to be much of an athlete, let alone an Ultraman.

Where's the Power Meter on This Thing?
Here, my dad teaches me how to ride my first bike in the Detroit neighborhood of my youth. But I wouldn't get serious about this odd contraption until I was ten years older than my father in this picture.

Looking Good!
To put it mildly, my first ten years were awkward. But finally I found something I was good at—swimming. This shot was taken just after I set the “10 and under” summer-league team record in the 25-meter butterfly.

Welcome to College!
This picture pretty much sums up my Stanford experience, and the decade that followed. Nothing got between me, my new best friend, and a good time.

Golden Boy.
On deck at Stanford's DeGuerre Pool with my Stanford swim team buddies Hank Wise
(LEFT)
and Dave Schraven
(CENTER)
, 1987. The world was my oyster.

Best Day Ever.
Very pregnant with our daughter Mathis, Julie and I get married—yoga style. That day held a little bit of everything—rock & roll, gospel singers, African dancers, a Hindu fire ceremony, a Sioux teepee, and readings from my stepsons, Tyler and Trapper.
(PHOTO BY STACIE ISABELLA TURK)

Seersucker in the Ashram.
My parents played the role of good sports at my wedding to Julie, which was—to say the least—less than traditional. I'll never forget my dad's expression when he set eyes on Bhagavan Das, the legendary yogi and musician who married us.

My New Bride, Julie.
Not sure what I did to deserve this woman, but she would help me immensely in getting through the tough athletic ordeals ahead.
(PHOTO BY STACIE ISABELLA TURK)

Doctor of Jurisprudence—or Maybe Lack Thereof?
Here I am at Cornell Law School graduation with my buddies Paul Morris
(RIGHT)
and Pablo Morales
(LEFT)
, 1994. You could say I had
too
good a time that day, and things ended badly.

Cheeseburger Heaven.
My only decent “before” shot, this photo was taken when I was 38—on family vacation visiting Julie's relatives in Chile. I'm tipping the scales at about 190 here, around 20 pounds shy of my heaviest weight.