In 2011, I achieved a remarkable feat by completing my first IronMan in Panama City, Florida, crossing that iconic finish line in 14 hours and 2 minutes. For those unfamiliar with the IronMan, it's considered one of the most grueling endurance sports globally, comprising a 2.4-mile swim, a 112-mile bike ride, and a full 26.2-mile marathon. You're given a mere 17 hours, within a 24-hour day, to accomplish this remarkable feat and hear the unforgettable words "You are an IronMan," delivered by the renowned official IronMan announcer, Mike Riley, with 35 years of experience. Achieving this felt like conquering the impossible, a culmination of countless hours of intense training, and a testament to pushing the limits of the human body.
The journey to reach this goal was anything but easy. It involved not just physical exertion but also financial commitment and an unyielding determination. It's a sport where costs add up quickly; I spent close to $12,000, including the purchase of a high-quality bike, just to participate. Registration was on a first-come, first-served basis, and competition for spots was fierce, with word circulating that only one percent of the world's population could claim the title of IronMan.
After completing IronMan Florida, I set my sights on surpassing my previous time and headed to Arizona with a friend to volunteer at IronMan Arizona, hoping to secure an early registration spot. Arizona, like Florida, boasted a flatter course, making it more accessible for athletes striving to cover the 140.2 miles within the 17-hour time limit. In those days, IronMan locations in the US were limited, and if you wished to avoid the long waiting list, you might have to consider international options.
In the final weeks leading up to the race, training intensity decreased as part of the tapering process. I had completed the essential training and even undertaken a mock IronMan, replicating race day conditions but excluding the final 13.1 miles of the marathon portion. I was ready for the challenge ahead.
However, my life took an unexpected turn when, ten and a half months later, I embarked on a routine 40-50 mile cycling route outside San Antonio with a friend. Tragically, an 82-year-old motorist struck me from behind while driving a heavy-duty truck at 55 mph. The impact sent me flying 30 feet, and I landed on my back, suffering a severe L1 burst fracture. In an instant, I was paralyzed from the waist down, unable to recall the specifics of the collision—just the sound of a deafening crash, followed by darkness.
The ambulance ride to the hospital was excruciating, exacerbating my pain to unbearable levels. Every bump on the road seemed like an insurmountable obstacle. At that moment, all I could think about was the desperate need for pain relief. Unfortunately, the rush-hour traffic, combined with road construction, made a MedFlight impossible due to the time it would take to reach me and navigate through the construction to a level-1 trauma center.
News of my accident spread quickly. A friend who served as a Fire Chief heard my name on the scanner and managed to contact my friends and family. By the time I arrived at the hospital, my friend's dad was already waiting there, and thus began the flood of visitors, starting with the memorable arrival of dear old Buck, whose presence was so unexpected that it almost felt surreal.
My best girlfriends, who lived four hours away, hastily packed their bags and rushed to my side. They were acutely aware of the gravity of my situation and prayed fervently throughout their journey. The four of them initiated a prayer chain that spanned across the country and even reached as far as Israel, where my closest friend Bonnie's mother was visiting the holy lands. She placed a handwritten prayer for my recovery in Jesus's temple.
Upon reaching the hospital, I was promptly connected to an IV filled with Dilaudid, a much-needed relief from the excruciating pain. While I had a high threshold for pain, the combination of a shattered vertebra and road rash across my back made it unbearable. The doctors delivered a grim prognosis after reviewing my x-rays: I would never walk again. This news sent my fear soaring, raising the question of whether I could endure the extensive 9 1/2-hour L1-T12 spinal fusion surgery required to save me. For someone accustomed to strength and resilience, this marked the first time I truly questioned my ability to overcome such a daunting procedure.
My doctors informed both my parents and me that my chances of ever walking again were less than one percent, a disheartening statistic. However, my parents and friends refused to accept this prognosis, fervently pleading with the medical team. They emphasized that they were dealing with someone exceptional—an IronMan, no less. The doctors eventually revised their estimate to a two percent chance of walking again. While the news remained bleak, it provided me with a glimmer of hope. They explained that a spinal cord subjected to such trauma was like an old telephone line, with operators on each end trying to establish a connection between two people. Although the connection might not be perfect, it still existed despite the static.
Over the following four and a half months, my 40th birthday drew near, and I was determined to make it an extraordinary celebration. I envisioned a 1920s-themed birthday party and set a formidable goal for myself: to walk into the party. It was an audacious objective, but I achieved it with the assistance of Knee Ankle Foot Orthotics (KFOs) on my legs—braces that extended up to my hip flexors. I vividly remember the day when, on Martin Luther King Jr. Day, I asked to be placed in the pool, jokingly remarking that I still had functioning arms. From that point forward, I noticed significant improvement. I embraced walking as much as possible, putting aside my pain for the sake of regaining my independence.
Many regarded my recovery as miraculous, attributing it to a combination of factors: my peak physical condition as an athlete, an indomitable positive attitude, and an unwavering refusal to accept my diagnosis. Throughout the eleven-year journey, I battled excruciating pain and underwent sixteen surgeries.
Determined to make a difference, I founded The Now You See Me Foundation, a 501(c)(3) non-profit organization that materialized in 2015, three years following my cycling accident. My mission was twofold: to inspire individuals with spinal cord injuries (SCIs) and athletes affected by traumatic, disabling injuries sustained during training. Since then, I've provided substantial financial assistance to injured cyclists. By 2021, my focus expanded to the second part of my mission: contributing to spinal cord research.
We've made significant strides on this journey. I orchestrate and fundraise for two major events each year. The first is held in January, known as our 10th Annual Monica’s Mile, a 1-hour swim challenge hosted at the Alamo Heights Natatorium, 705 Trafalgar Rd., San Antonio, TX, 78216. Our primary fundraiser, taking place in the fall, is the 6th Annual Monster Dash Run, Walk, or Roll, scheduled for October 29, 2023, at Eisenhower Park.
To learn about our latest collaborative efforts with UT Health San Antonio in our mission to support spinal cord research, please check out our Facebook post.
https://www.facebook.com/photo/?fbid=10232280454017478&set=a.1322716951472
Thank you for taking the time out of your day to read my story.
Monica Cost, Founder/President Now You See Me Foundation
Tri.monica@nowyoucme.org
nowyoucme.org
