How Monster turns into a true Monster

What was supposed to be two weeks of a doubleheader mountain bike gravity assignments for me fizzled out early last week when on the way back from the first of the two races, at Solitude Mountain, UT, my heart suddenly went haywire and decided to go into atrial fibrillation. How come? Just two words: Monster Energy.

The title sponsor of the US Pro Downhill Series, which consists of a total of five events all over the nation, is Monster Energy. In hindsight, I ask myself how the makers of a drink that has put people into emergency rooms for years (without my knowing about it, but well-documented online) can have this kind of exposure in what is supposed to be a clean sport. Little did I know (my bad, really) how toxic energy drinks such as Monster and Red Bull (both connected to "extreme sports" and catering to a mainly young—and mostly male— crowd) really are. It took me two days in the Lubbock Heart Hospital to realize the full extend of the health hazard these concoctions of ingredients such as taurine, guarana, and of course caffeine present—all of it packaged into colorful cans that belittle the fact that these drinks have the very real potential to kill. But then, who is to argue with a multi-billion industry, right? Current estimates put it at a measly $75 billion worldwide, with a total of $235 billion projected by 2030.

I had arrived in Utah on Wednesday to familiarize myself with the venue, which was new to me, before official practice started on Thursday. With a little more than 400 athletes, this was definitely the largest downhill race I had ever worked. Solitude is less than an hour from Salt Lake City, in one of the various side canyons that house resorts such as Alta and Snowbird. It's a very pretty place with the typical ski resort amenities (and prices!) that one finds at a base elevation around 8,000 feet without a town nearby.

At the SLC airport I had hooked up with David, who had been assigned as assistant referee, while I was chief. Jess played an interesting double role as secretary and also race director. The race series is a well-oiled machine that largely runs on its own; series director Clay (I had worked one of his races on the East coast in 2023, Mountain Spring) knows his stuff, and there was no reason to try to reinvent the wheel or tell him how to run his race.

Dave and I roomed together in the Solitude Resort, an unusual arrangement for five nights for the PCP of a National Series race, but we got along well. He is a firefighter, ski patroller, and first responder who knows many of the players on the downhill circuit. His role during the race consisted of one basic task: Being stationed at the start house to supervise practice, seeding, and final runs. He was rock solid, and we developed a nice rapport, which was supposed to have been continued the following week at Big Bear, in California, during USA Cycling's Gravity Mountain Bike National Championships.

Well, I should have listend to Dave when he told me that Monster was bad shit. But, you know, people will tell you that hot dogs are bad shit, too, yet eating one or two will not put you into the hospital. And so I had one, sometimes two cans of the stuff (one of the various sugar free versions since the regular ones are total sugar bombs) to break the daylong routine of drinking water, and more water. I didn't try to get energy from the Monster Rehab Tea and Lemonade, just a different taste in my mouth.

I enjoyed my time at Solitude, and an unexpected visit by Holly and Richard, who had been in the area and saw a FB post of mine and spontaneously decided to say hi to their fellow USAC official, was a real highlight. I spent the every day on the mountain, walking the dusty, gnarly course and riding the lift up to take Dave his lunch (and a Monster as he was begging for caffeine). During the competition runs I was positioned in the finish area to decide on potential reruns for riders who had been affected by a crashed rider in front of them.

It was sunny and hot, we were high up in the mountains, and I was enjoying life. No need to go into any of the race details; if you'd like to see some of the action you should check out the official hour-long video of the Pro finals, a truly professional, fast-paced, and well-narrated production by the onsite video crew. As it turned out, two of them, Michael "the Mangler" and Tim gave me a ride to the airport on Monday morning, and I never let on that I suddenly got hit by what seemed to be a baseball bat or maybe even an iron crowbar. My shoulders and back and chest began to hurt during our drive to SLC, and I had no idea what was going on. Was this a heart attack? What was happening?

One can debate my decision to stay quiet during the remainder of our ride and not ask to be taken to the nearest emergency room. I remembered my broken hip four years ago in Mexico and how glad I was to make it home for treatment and rehab—I didn't want to get stuck all by my lonesome self in Salt Lake, even if I have numerous friends in Utah who undoubtedly would have tried to help out. And so I took a chance, hoping not to go into cardiac arrest on the plane and cause the bird to be diverted to the next airport. Believe me, there was a lot going through my head, and maybe it was foolish to stick it out.

The flight was torture. Thankfully, I had spent $235 out of my own pocket to upgrade the entire trip to First, but really, all I cared about was to make it to DFW. From there I called my friend Guy, the cardiologist who had taken care of me ten years ago when I had my aFib episode. He told me to immediately, upon having landed, head for the Lubbock Heart Hospital, where he would wait for me. Once in Lubbock, Sandy picked me up and took me to the ER. Some tests and a chest x-ray later it was clear that my heart rhythm was completely whacko. The excruciating pain was caused by my ticker having gone all day at 150 to 160 bpm. With meds things got better that night, within a few hours. 

I spent two nights in the hospital, taken care of by Sandy for the first four hours or so and then by friendly nurses and of course Guy, who checked on me Tuesday morning. Wednesday around noon I was discharged, still in aFib but with a bottle of amiodarone to eventually get me back in sync and a few boxes of Eliquis to make sure that I don't stroke out for the time being. At the time of this writing five days later, I'm still not completely in rhythm.

I was able to cancel (for a full refund) my Wednesday morning flight to Ontario, CA, where I had been scheduled to be on the crew for the Gravity Nationals, as mentioned. For the past several days I have been riding my bike, 25 to 28 miles each time, for which Guy cleared me at the time of discharge. I feel just fine, but my new Fitbit-like heart rate monitor (ordered while I was still in the hospital) shows some fluctuations still, although they are becoming less pronounced. Once I appear to be back in rhythm, Guy wants to conduct another ECG and a few other tests, just to be sure. Lest I forget: He told me that he sees a sharp spike in aFib in young males every year during finals time. Yep, that's the target group for Monster. 

Lesson learned.

Jürgen

Ocean Brown and Seaweed, aka H10 Ocean Blue and Sand

Here comes a word of advice: Don't travel to the Punta Cana area of the Dominican Republic between the middle of May through the end of July, unless you are really into seaweed wrestling. Ah, the things they don't tell us in the brochures and on the websites! I like to think of myself as a savvy traveler, yet this tidbit of information had eluded me—actually, it had never even remotely appeared on my radar, which was much more calibrated toward tropical depressions and hurricanes.

Thankfully, the sound of the Atlantic's waves is still the same when you close your eyes and try to ignore the tons and tons of biomass that wash ashore on a daily basis in the DR's best-known tourist area in early summer. 

Sandy and I had left Lubbock on Independence Day, splurging on First class tickets on the way to Charlotte, where we overnighted in the airport Sheraton (freebie credit card certificate). I'm pretty much done with the old upgrade game, which has become increasingly frustrating with most flights having only one empty upgrade seat left at the gate and 37 passengers vying for it. The next day's Business class flight to Punta Cana was delayed by two hours, thanks to one of AA's many irrops this year. Once in the air, the three-and-a-half-hour long flight to PUJ gave us spectacularly beautiful views of the Bahamas and numerous small islands and shallow sandbanks. (On the way back, we actually could see large areas of drifting seaweed off Hispaniola's east coast.)

Sandy captured the in-flight pics with her and my camera

Immigration into the DR is now a fairly straightforward affair, as long as you have completed the immigration paperwork ahead of time and downloaded the admittance QR code to your smartphone. Let me refine this statement: It should be straightforward, but since there's still a manual passport check by an officer the queues are still long after scanning the code.

I had arranged for our ground transfer to the resort through Viator, at a reasonable $55 for the two of us for the return trip—both times we were the only passengers in the vehicles despite the "shared transportation" billing. Over the years, I have found Viator to offer some of the best prices for such transfers.

The H10's resident flamingo and his feline buddies

Of course, it wouldn't have been H10 had we simply waltzed into what is labeled the "VIP reception," paid our all-inclusive fee, and been happily on the way to our room. Oh no, that would have been too simple. Instead, it took two hours to get our room ready, and the accommodations were as disappointing as any over all those years of having to go to battle at H10 for an acceptable room. Not only were we looking straight onto the perimeter fence of the property and the small service road, but we also had to contend with two single beds after having asked weeks ahead of time for a king size bed. The name on the welcome letter said it all.

I had really wanted to make this an enjoyable vacation for Sandy, who doesn't get around as much or as often as I do. The next afternoon, after annoying discussions and endless WhatsApp messages with our "butler," Timothe, we were able to move into a much nicer room with a view of the pool, a glimpse of the Atlantic, and an adult bed, but do we really have to waste an entire day of our vacation with such issues? During what most likely was H10's last chance to keep me as a customer after my contract ends in December I told the timeshare salesman what my experience has been over the years, and it was obvious that he had heard similar accounts of problems small and large many times over. After an hour, we simply walked out.

I had been to the Ocean Blue and Sand in December of 2016, and my general impression had been mostly positive, even if the overall experience certainly did not match earlier trips to H10 properties in Mexico. In the nine years since then, service and food presentation and quality have lost their luster almost completely—sorry, no food porn this time around. Sandy very quickly picked up on the general lack of "interest in the guest" the local staff display, with only a few exceptions. Sad, but true. Five days on the ground was enough to get tired of the menus as well as trying to get a server's attention.

This young barista was one of the few genuinely friendly staff

Enough of all that. We spent most of our daytime hours in one of the sun loungers overlooking the beach, with frequent excursions into one of the two very nice pools that form the centerpiece of the resort. The sun loungers were very close to the beach Tiki Bar so that we didn't mind getting our drinks—the advertised and promised waiter service never did materialize. The pools featured swim-up bars, and so it was easy to while away hour upon hour just floating and looking at the well-placed palms and other vegetation. We both thought that the architecture of the resort was rather attractive, and of course the grounds were well manicured.

One day we tried to go for a walk on the beach, but it was tedious (and at times truly uncomfortable) walking over and through the seaweeds. The various resorts employ heavy front-end loaders to remove as much of the brown mass as possible, but the stuff drifts in faster than it can be removed. When I had been at this resort in 2016, the beach was just recovering from the destructive forces of a hurricane, and there was a lot of erosion. By now, new sand has accumulated and fresh palm trees are growing; looking at the white breakers marking the small barrier reef maybe 600 feet out (and the turquoise water that fills in the area toward the beach) shows how pretty this place is—just not at your feet.

Since the coastline is not completely straight but features a few small points and bays, there were a few short stretches of beach that were not completely covered by seaweed. Of course, those areas changed with the direction of the wind, but at least it was possible to enter the water for that Atlantic experience. Nevertheless, the swimsuits collected enough flotsam so that we ventured into the sea just once.

Back in Fat Old Men's Speedo Land—I fit right in!

We pretty much lucked out with the weather as there were a couple of completely clear days, and the rest of the time big, billowy clouds chased one another across the sky. Of course, it was damn muggy, even if it wasn't really all that hot. A few brief showers kept the sauna fully charged. As I said, the pools were an excellent place to be during the daylight hours, and we had our breakfasts and lunches on the breezy porch of the Privilege lounge.

Like at all these resorts, evening entertainment often involves bingo and karaoke. We missed out on the beach-front fire show, mainly because it had rained pretty hard earlier that evening and we were glad to be dry in our air-conditioned room after a full day in the sun. Maybe we're just getting old as the thought of going to the disco never crossed our minds, and even the bowling alley didn't hold much attraction for us ...

Just don't ask "Why?"

After five nights in the Ocean Blue and Sand it was time to fly back home, this time via Miami. Our flight to Dallas was delayed a bit, but we had enough layover time to enjoy the DFW Admiral's Club before it was time to make it to our gate. Alas, it was another one of those weather days, and instead of arriving in Lubbock a little before midnight on Thursday we got into our Uber at almost 2:30 a.m. Friday morning.

I suppose not all trips can be perfect; still, Sandy enjoyed herself more than I could have hoped and that, in turn, made me happy.

Jürgen