Ow! Ow! Ow!

I just heard that Lance Armstrong is feeling poorly due to a crash caused by a bee sting on the eyelid. I can sympathize.

Five years ago, well before my tri-career began, my cardiologist refused to accept any more of my arguments that gardening is an aerobic sport. So with my cholesterol off the charts and his bootprints all over my ass, I returned to running for the first time in, oh, 3 decades.

One evening I was out for a run when one of the Great Suburban Outback's biggest killer wasps flew under my sunglasses and started stinging. And kept stinging as I frantically tried to remove the beast from my face. And kept stinging. And stinging. All told, I was stung at least a dozen times on the eye itself, upper and lower eyelids and face. The stinging only stopped when I ripped the glasses off my face and plucked the wasp out of my eye much like you'd remove a contact lens.

But then the truth sunk in: I was miles from home and medical attention, and, while I'm not known to be terribly allergic to stings, I'd never been stung 12 times in the eye before. So I took out RUNNING for home. Not jogging, not sprinting, an all-out, balls-to-the-wall, heart-pounding fear-pumping run. (Too bad I can't bottle some of that adrenaline; I could use it for Steelhead.) By the time I got to the ER (yes, the RN Tri-Wife made me go over my strenuous objections) the eye was gross-looking and so swollen that my sunglasses would no longer fit on my face.

There was a small upside to this mis-adventure: I was so hideous that the ER staff would not leave me in the waiting room for even a second lest I scare the faint of heart. Talk about fast service! A Benadryl shot later I was out of the ER, and out like a light. No permanent harm done, at least that I'll admit to.

But Lance, I feel your pain.