Mind + Body

It's been 16 years this spring since I sobered up. It's been a hell of a ride. Running is a good thing and I think I've found myself a good coach!


From Addict To Athlete


A former drug and alcohol abuser finds a new way to get high--with exercise
by: John Hanc & Todd Crandell






My legs felt like rubber as I stumbled down the road. I was nauseous, dizzy, and disoriented. Pain seemed to radiate from every part of my body. But I had to do this-it meant so much to me. I gritted my teeth, determined that I could tolerate the agony just a little while longer. The last few miles of the 1999 Ironman triathlon in Panama City, Florida, were excruciating. My weak legs, vacant expression, and fuzzy mind were symptoms I had experienced before-in another, darker life. But this time they were not due to wanton ingestion of outrageous amounts of illegal substances.

I was blessed with just about every advantage. I grew up in a nice, upper-middle-class community, and was fortunate enough to possess athletic talent and some smarts. But I was also cursed with a genetic predisposition toward alcoholism and my own emotional problems, stupidity, and bad judgment. I hit bottom. Fist fights with my parents. Jail. Homelessness. Attempted suicide. Lots of depraved and hair-raising incidents. Some of them are almost funny, in a sick way, such as the time I got drunk in Ohio and woke up in Georgia. My life was like the old party-hearty anthem stuck on a scratch on a vinyl record: "Sex, drugs, drugs, drugs, drugs...vrrrppp...rock and roll."

Some addicts specialize. I was a generalist, and I took a perversely democratic view toward drugs and alcohol: booze, weed, coke, crack, valium. If it could mess me up, I was for taking it. During my battle with drugs and alcohol, I lost everything-my family, a promising sports career, my self-respect, and nearly my life.

In April 1993, after 13 years of this, a long binge finally brought me to my knees. I was living with my grandmother in my hometown of Sylvania, Ohio. Over the course of two days, I passed out half-naked at a Guns N' Roses concert, urinated on a Jiffy Lube manager's desk, and was arrested. A friend bailed me out and took me home. I continued consuming vodka, beer, and crack, but my disgust over the past 48 hours grew. Instead of sentencing myself to slow death by poison-my usual, self-loathing response-I began to turn the anger toward the poison itself. I started to see that if I could control that, I could control my life. And I wanted a life, I realized, not death. I cursed the booze even as I was sipping it. At noon on April 15, 1993, I drained my glass of beer and declared, "I don't want this anymore. I am done." I knew at that moment I had taken my last drink. I was suddenly determined to get sober.

Starting Over

As with everything else in my life, I jumped into sobriety with both feet. I attended Alcoholics Anonymous and Cocaine Anonymous meetings, took classes at the University of Toledo, and picked up my goalie stick again. I was 28, so the idea of playing in the NHL, a real possibility when I was a teenager, was long gone. I started running and lifting weights, and went to a hockey camp in Montreal, and in 1994 was drafted to play for the East Coast Hockey League, essentially the minor leagues of the sport. I had a decent season, but when it was over, I decided to move on. I had achieved what I set out to do: prove that I belonged, prove that I could play, prove that somewhere in this body and soul was a spark that I couldn't douse despite a decade of trying.

That December, I watched the broadcast of the Hawaii Ironman triathlon and saw competitors swim 2.4 miles, ride 112 on a bike, then run a marathon. It was exercise excess on a scale an addict could appreciate. We need to route our addictive energies into something positive and away from the craving that still gnaws at us. Training for triathlons became that for me.

My days revolved around swimming in the morning, running at lunchtime, and cycling after work. A local paper did a story about my road to recovery, and the response I received was overwhelming. Not just from people I knew, but individuals with loved ones battling substance abuse. That's when it occurred to me that instead of doing these races just to feel good about myself, I could use them to help other people. Being an ex-addict gave me credibility with addicts who were still using or fighting hard not to. I knew what they were going through and could offer them an alternative. So in 2001, I founded Racing for Recovery, an organization that promotes substance-abuse education by encouraging others to use physical activity to prevent or escape addiction.

It's now 13 years since I put down my last drink. And although I've found sobriety, I still have not found peace. Who has? Instead of worrying about where to get my next gram of coke, I'm worrying about balancing the books for my foundation and training for my next event (in April I'll be competing in my 11th Ironman in Arizona and the Boston Marathon). Now five people-my wife and four kids-depend on me. Life is as stressful for me as it is for every other adult in America. But knowing that I don't have to reach for a drink to deal with it makes me proud.