Running I: You Either Get It or You Don't

“Some mistakes we never stop paying for.”   Roy Hobbs; The Natural

The call came over the bullhorn, “First call, 880; First call."  That was my alarm to start warming up; a slow jog around the high school campus in my black fleece, Aragon High, sweats.

I’m sitting here staring at my right ankle.  It isn’t horribly swollen but comparing it to the left I can see a puffed up band running along the front of my ankle between those two knobs of bone on each side.  I can also tell when I slip on a sock that the right one feels noticeably tighter. 

“Second call 880; second call.”  I’d worked up a light sheen of sweat and was stretching on the infield paying some attention to the events in progress and trying to figure out how much time I had before my race. 


 

It’s coming on to a year now.  The day before Mother’s Day, May 8^th 2011, the family was gathered at my daughter’s house for a barbecue.  There was beer, wine and mimosas and I was drinking wine.  Really not a smart thing when you consider that the doctor had told me too much could cause a recurrence of atrial fibrillation and land me back in the ER.  But the doctor had given me something I could fudge with; two or three glasses would be okay.  Alright so I was beyond two or three and by evening I was well beyond the fudge factor.  With the festivities winding down, I figured I would throw some of the big deck chairs in the back of the truck.  Toting chairs down a flight of narrow stairs isn’t a good idea when you’ve gone beyond the fudge factor and so I missed a step rolled the ankle and ended up on the bottom of the stairs.  I knew right off that the ankle was broken, not from the pain or any sound but the immediate swelling; felt like my sock was going to burst.  “Some mistakes we never stop paying for.”

“Last call, 880; last call.”  I’d taken off my training flats, pulled my sweats and slipped on the feather light white and blue Puma spikes with the Velcro closures.  I’d already taken a spike wrench and made sure each of the ½” spikes was secure.  That sound of track spikes on a dirt track is unmistakable for me; a distinctive crunching of spikes piercing brittle dirt that reminds me of the thrill of competing.   I was sporting the bright orange socks that I always wore at meets.  I suppose that they were my nod towards being some sort of iconoclast.  I jogged up to the starting area with those crows churning around in my stomach. 

The swelling in itself isn’t too alarming.  I’ve had a few doctors offer the opinion that there would be swelling up to a year later; even the charlatan in podiatry who sent me on my way with a bare minimum of instructions and no mention of physical therapy.  “Take two aspirin and please don’t call me in the morning.”  The physical therapy came when I realized weeks later that I was getting nowhere hobbling around in a boot with no strength whatsoever in the ankle.  My primary physician referred me in August and eight months after that the therapist more or less told me, “My work is done here.  Keep trying to run and give it some time.”

I went out to the track last Saturday, a nice cushy all-weather track, to test the ankle.  I’ve been able to do 10 – 12 minutes on the treadmill although a couple of days of that in a row and the ankle feels sore and the swelling is more pronounced.  As I pulled my sweats and retied my shoes I felt those butterflies in my belly; please don’t let it hurt, please let me get 10 to 15 minutes in.  I stepped up onto the track, took a deep breath, started my watch and took off.  Through the first turn and OK.  Down the back straight and something wasn’t feeling right.  After one lap on the track the pain told me to shut it down for the day; my watch read 2:38 for the lap.  I would love to meet that podiatrist who sent me on my not so merry way.  I would like to wish him a hearty, “fuck you asshole.” 

This was the point where I considered excuses to pull out of the race.  Maybe I can just spontaneously strain something or break out in a frightening rash or possibly even vomit on the starter.  The nerves were almost unbearable at this point.  In track you don’t have the luxury of teammates to cover a bad performance.  It’s all you, in front of God and more importantly, coach, and everyone.  Part of the nerves comes from knowing that the next couple of minutes are going to be very painful.  I think at times I had this urge to affect a little limp so that coach might think I tweaked something and scratch me from the race.

Walking sheepishly from the track I affected a small limp so that the joggers there might think I tweaked something.  I wouldn’t want them to think that I could only gut out one lap and then go home.  I knew walking to the car that I would have to turn the boiling anger down to a simmer.  After going home to change and decompress I needed to be at my daughter’s house for her little girl’s 1^st birthday party and petulance wasn’t on the activity schedule. 

We gathered at the start line and the starter gave the usual brief instructions; “Staggered start; maintain your lanes until after the last turn of the first lap and then break for the pole.” He assigned lanes, one school getting odd lanes and the other even.  In the half mile the inside lane was the most desirable. You don’t have to break for the pole and the whole field is already in front of you.  Not so much the faster quarter and 220 where you have to manage the tight turns at a higher speed that threatens to pull you into lane two. In the other lanes all or part of the race is behind you and you have less of a sense of how it’s developing.

The dog knew something wasn’t right the moment I walked into the house. Didn’t say a word but she took one look at me and then headed right for the sanctuary that is her crate.  My wife knew something wasn’t right even though this time I hadn’t launched my shoes across the room.  I brooded for a while at the kitchen table and told Cora of the aborted workout.  “Well at least you did one lap.”  That’s the small consolation, half full view of things that doesn’t take into account pain, swelling, a gait that’s out of kilter and the fact that it was only one stinking lap.  I love Cora dearly but she just doesn’t get it.  She offers that we could take walks together and my response is either silence or on a bad day; “Why in the fuck would I want to go for a walk?”  Most of my acquaintances and co-workers don’t get it.  “It’s just running, right?”   Yeah it’s just running but I’ve been doing it over forty years and I’m starting to get that shitty feeling that my forty year run is about over.

My son-in-law’s aunt gets it.  We were talking at the birthday party and she asked how my ankle is doing.  I told her about the run that got scrubbed after one lap.  She offered some heartfelt sympathy and told me that due to some neck pain she hasn’t been able to run either.  She misses it and she allowed that when we’re frustrated about not being able to run there are those who just don’t get it; no shit.  I have a few friends on Facebook who are runners and every now and then one of them gets injured and sidelined for a while and chafes about not being able to run.  They get it. 

The starter pointed us to our respective lanes and made sure that the timers were ready.  “Runners to your marks;” we toed our lines.  The hand with the starting pistol came up, “seeeeeeet”…….here is where he took a little over a year and a half before firing the gun……..you lean, lean, leeeeeeaaannnnn, and just when you think you’re going to fall on your face…. BANG. 

When the gun goes off you don’t really think.  You take off at a sprint and try to find your pace.  You have three energy systems to choose from when doing physical activity; aerobic, anaerobic and anaerobic-alactic and in the half mile you get to use them all; but like a rocket going into orbit you have to fire them off in carefully planned stages.  Otherwise you end up like that North Korean rocket of a few days ago; you crash and burn.  The anaerobic-alactic lets you go like a bat out of hell but lasts about 7 to 10 seconds before you burn up your stores of Adenosine Triphosphate (ATP).  The kicker is that you can only use it at the beginning of the race.  It isn’t something that you can hold in your back pocket for when you might need it.  This one gets you through that jockeying for position stage just after the gun goes off.

There’s a lot of envy going on.  One of my Facebook running friends added me into a group called Running Friends in which the members exchange stories about workouts and events.  I don’t have a damn thing to contribute.  Another added me into The One Million Mile Challenge, a group that is adding up their running miles to get to a million.  What in the hell can I add here?  Well I suppose they can put me down for my ¼ mile; only 999,999 & ¾ to go, whoopee we’re on our way.  It took about an hour of reading posts to get thoroughly deflated so I turned off the notifications and now I ignore the groups (no offense guys).  The envy hits every time I see someone running on the recreation path along the main road through Hercules.  I’ll be that they get it.

After that first 10 seconds you’re well into the turn and should be into your aerobic system which will take you through the first lap and a little beyond.  Aerobically you’re resynthesizing ATP without simultaneously generating fatigue by-products but in the 880 you’re on the ragged edge of going anaerobic, a system which will shut down after about 50 seconds and completely blow up your race.  As we broke for the pole I was in last place, my usual spot at the end of one lap and my usual strategy; maintain contact, preserve energy and run a faster 2^nd quarter than the field.

I sure hope that my doctor gets it.  I emailed her the other day to try to get me into the Kaiser Sports Medicine clinic.  She asked me to get the ankle x-rayed again and email her when it was done.  I did and I have to say I wasn’t pleased with the response that I got.  I have a feeling that my doctor and I are going to have a little war. 

When you’re somewhere in the third turn (around 700 yards) of the race you start thinking about going anaerobic.  If you go too soon then about the beginning of the home stretch you will have bogged your legs down with waste product, you will tie up and then you will look like a spaz coming down the final 100 yards.  At the 660 (1/2 lap to go) mark I was moving past the first place runner and it was time to make a quick strategic decision; how much more to speed up and when to throw it into the final gear.  There isn’t time to mull it over.  You go or you don’t and if you go, oops I changed my mind isn’t an option.

Even my dog gets it.  When I take her up to the local ball field and walk around the perimeter path I’ll occasionally break into a jog.  Suddenly she runs excitedly, romping and bounding.  When I shut down into a walk she stops and looks back at me and the look on her face seems to say; “Why?  C’mon lets run.” 

There’s a din during a race.  Teammates and coaches running back and forth on the infield exhorting, calling out splits, telling you that someone’s right on your ass and other information that’s about as useful at the moment as Milliard Fillmore’s middle name.   I’m pretty sure that if I’d any thoughts related to all that shouting it was probably along the lines of, “Look I’m a little busy right now, I think I have this under control so just LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE.”  Coming off the final turn I was seeing the finish tape.  There is a cardinal rule that says you DO NOT turn and look at what’s behind you especially on the final straight; a rule that’s painfully hard to follow.  So all that was left was to assume someone actually was right on my ass and just run like hell and not get out kicked. 

Lately I’m consumed with the notion of just giving up; take the running shoes and maybe burn them in effigy.  I’m tired of this.  Besides the months of physical therapy there’ve been two months of acupuncture, pounds and pounds of ice, vials of ibuprofen and a butt load of anger.  And, you’re probably saying, a piss pot full of self-pity.  Okay, you’re right.  And you’re point is? 

There are times during a race when the thought crosses your mind of quitting.  Maybe it isn’t you’re day, the field has left you behind, you didn’t maintain contact, you aren’t really feeling it today or it just plain hurts and you know it’s just going to hurt more.  Pull up, step off the track, and maybe even grab your hamstring for a little dramatic affect. 

So I’m not ready to quit….yet.  I’ll probably have to get into a pissing contest with Kaiser, cajole an MRI out of them, argue with a trigger happy orthopedist brandishing a cortisone injection and break in a new therapist.  More exercise, more ice, more anti-inflammatories and more frustration.  And if I want to stay married, a lot of anger management. 

I did win that race.  My first and only victory, a little over 2 minutes and it was pretty sweet.  So now it’s a new and different race and it would be pretty sweet to win this one.  Those who get it would know how sweet it would be.  Those who don’t probably didn’t read this far.