Sleeping in, my favorite (solitary) pastime…That was the plan at least, after 7 grueling weeks of surgery, the defining right-of-passage rotation for all 3rd year med students, I was superbly sleep deprived.  But luckily, I had a rare morning off so had skipped the night’s final ritual of setting the cell-phone alarm clock.  While I’m sure to recall these days fondly when recounting tales of youth to the polite staff in a retirement home, right now I’m simply feeling the effects of miserly hours between the sheets.  My mind operates with the agility and responsiveness of a Oldsmobile “Custom Cruiser” stationwagon.  And not, mind you, that fresh-off-the-lot version ready to take on the summer of 1977 towing the family and pop-up camper around the Southeast.  No.  My mind has the lively handling of that steed 202,176 miles and 30 years of neglect later. Running on a quorum 6 or 7 of its 8 original cylinders and 454 cubic-inches of displacement.  A gentle back-and-forth vibration is the only low-speed reminder of the missing cylinder(s).  Additional fine touches include duct-taped vinyl seats, and pealing faux-wood siding.  Just to fully paint this scene in your mind, picture this beaut, bedazzled in its metallic orange luster (a testament to the artistic genius of the 70’s), carving switchbacks at the 2008 Formula 1 Monaco Grand Prix, the year it rained. That’s my mind on sleep debt.

So I’m headed to bed Monday night hoping for some Cinderella action…go to bed a 1970’s metallic orange Olds, wake-up an F1 winning McLaren.

Figure 1: Grabbing some early-morning zzzzzzz’s

Bam, bam, BaM, BAm, baM, bAM, BAM, BAM, BAM!

‘What…where…who…when…why…how…Who’s in the what now?…where am I? When is it?’…the early morning fog gradually lifts from my mind and I can finally form a coherent thought: “Who is at the door?” I wonder.  ‘Probably a housemate’s friend here for a morning run.  But don’t they know to just walk in this early, it’s 5:45 AM?!  I decide to stay in bed and wait for my guilty housemate–and I have idea of which housemate–to let in their friend.’

Not a sound.  No one gets up.  ‘Hmmmm?’

Bam, bam, BaM, BAm, baM, bAM, BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM BAAAM, BAAAAAMMMM!

“That is not the knock of a friend. That’s the knock of someone on a mission…the police…an especially aggressive early-bird of a delivery man.  What on EARTH!?” I wonder.

I wander, in wonderment, to the door.  Standing outside is a gentleman in his 50’s, casually but neatly dressed in khakis and a blue athletic jacket.  At his feet are two large black unmarked duffel bags.

“Is Eric here, or is he at surgery?” he asks.

Now, at this point, if you were in this situation–answering the door early in the morning to a stranger who knows something about you and asks for you by name–you would ask the stranger to introduce himself and state why he’s there, or say “I’m ‘So-and-So’, what do you need?”  That’s perfectly reasonable.  But it didn’t even occur to me that this fellow was asking for me, nor did it even register that my name is Eric. My first thought was “I didn’t know Eric was having surgery?!?”  In my defense, my housemate is dating a guy named Eric.

I stared at this man.  Blankly.  The fog still lifting:  Neatly but casually dressed.  Athletic jacket.  Black unmarked bags.  It was like the DaVinci Code.

“Oh, come in!  You’re from USADA!” I finally exclaimed in a moment of realization.

No worries about the early morning awakening, I’m more than happy to do my part to ensure the sport is clean.