Running on Empty

I’m not an athlete though, in my younger days, I may have looked like one. With my then-muscular thighs, there was a time I could have passed for a tennis player. With my height, I could have passed for an elite basketball player. But those days are long past. Due to my long-standing aversion to exercise, every leg muscle I once had has gone to flab. And due to osteoporosis, I’m not even as tall as I once was. (This is quite the bummer as the medical profession has taken such a liking to a person’s BMI versus just your weight. If I could only get taller, I could forget about exercise all together!)

—   —   —

I am 32 years old. I have decided to start running. I am tired of being a slug.

It is early June and I am registered to attend the annual conference of the Medical Group Management Association in October. It is going to be held in New Orleans, Louisiana. I am stoked. Not because I have longed to visit the iconic Bourbon Street and notorious jazz town, but because I am also registered to participate in the MGMA’s 5k fun run. And that is my goal. To finish that 5k. I have just over four months to train.

I have chosen 11:00 pm to be my running time for several reasons. It is cooler in the nighttime. Most nights, the moon along with house lights, provide enough light for me to see where I’m going (but not necessarily where I’m stepping). We live in a safe, quiet neighborhood and there are very few cars driving through at that hour. I don’t watch the news at 11:00 pm but my husband Pat does, making it an excellent time to steal away. But, probably the most important reason of all: I don’t want anyone to see me.

Of course, there are some disadvantages to running at night. You can’t see little potholes or stray rocks lying on the asphalt. And, if you’re running on the cement sidewalk, you can’t always see the dog doo some pet owner neglected to clean up. Also, the sidewalks in our neighborhood are over twenty years old. Many are cracked and uneven from tree roots. These are challenges I am willing to accept.

Because my exercise is limited to walking to and from my car, I know I will be starting slowly. That first night, I challenged myself to run a half block, to the end of my street. I made it as far as three driveways. The next night, about the same. I’m pathetic. It’s not as though the houses on my street sit on five-acre lots. But I think I know what my problem is. It’s my shoes.

It must be. These are the same shoes I wear everywhere. They aren’t real running shoes.

A week later, I’m running to the end of the street and most of the way back. By the end of the second week, I have a new pair of running shoes.

It’s not very long until I’m able to run a mile. (At first, my mile is gauged, not by a pedometer but by the odometer in my car as I drive the route I ran the night before. This method, in hindsight, may not be too accurate.)

I’ve established a routine. At 11:00 pm, I get my gear on – by now I have acquired a new Walkman, two ankle supports, a few new pairs of running shorts and several new sports bras to add to my already well-established collection of different-colored bandanas – I open the front door so our dog Foxy can watch through the storm door as I run past the house. I continue to increase my distance and now I pass the house two or three times a night. Each time I pass, Foxy lifts her head and I clap our secret code.

I’ve progressed to running almost three miles six nights a week. I am waiting for the “runner’s high” I’ve heard so much about, but it never reveals itself. Regardless, I’m pretty proud of myself.

— — —

It’s 11:00 pm. I say, “See ya later” to Foxy and head out.

My running route is usually the same each night. This night is no different except for one thing. I turn right off of our street to Austin Drive. I am just about to make another right onto Widner Street when it happens. That one thing.

By now I know where all the road bumps and divots are on my route but on this particular night, I have miscalculated where that one ripple in the asphalt is. Evidently, I didn’t pick up my feet enough to clear the ripple. Suddenly, I am airborne. I execute what I believe to be a faultless, armless swan dive, landing on my chinny-chin-chin.

The palms of my hands feel fine. Didn’t I use them to break my fall? I have what feels like gravel in my mouth. Before I spit it all out, I realize that the gravel is actually little bits of teeth. Alarmed, I run my tongue over my teeth and feel a jagged edge along the inside of one of my incisors. Relieved that all my front teeth remain intact, I jump quickly to my feet. Thank goodness it is dark out and no one has seen me!

I decide to walk back home. My chin feels wet and I dab at it with the bottom of my t-shirt.

I say hi to Foxy when I get to our front door. I pass by the family room where Pat is watching the news. I call to him that I fell as I make my way to the bathroom. I say it so matter-of-factly that he doesn’t get up from the couch. I look in the mirror. Eww…there is a bloody, gaping hole on my chin. It looks extremely grotesque. I go back to the family room and tell Pat that I think I need stitches.

He bolts up and shepherds me back to the bathroom so he can see my wound in better light. He begins to panic after telling me he can see my chin bone. Luckily, he doesn’t faint and he’s able to drive me to the hospital, but not before he wonders aloud, as I walk toward the garage door,  why I’m not changing out of my bloody shirt.

“What’s the point?” I ask. Besides, I happen to be wearing a Medical Group Management Association t-shirt. (I am a walking, running, tripping, and falling advertisement for the MGMA.)  And I think maybe, when the medical staff at the hospital sees “MGMA” emblazoned on my chest, they’ll assume I work with doctors and will see me faster and treat me better. (A little foreshadowing: If they did, I didn’t notice.)

A couple of hours later. I leave the emergency room with several layers of stitches in my chin. There is way too much black thread left after the doctor knotted his sewing. A bandage is affixed and the thread escapes from beneath, looking like the legs of a spider. Sexy.

Okay. I don’t run for the next couple of days, not because I’m sore but because I’m anxious about falling again. I can’t postpone my running for long, though. The number of days I have left to train are shrinking and I still can’t run five kilometers.

—   —   —

Conference time has arrived, and I have yet to complete a five-kilometer run. I am confident though, that the adrenalin rush I’m likely to have during the fun run will get me through.

But still. I’m a little concerned. The race begins at 7:00 am. We are in New Orleans and if we start any later it will be too hot. But even the early hour can’t escape the daunting, sweaty humidity. I am not a morning person and I’m used to running at the end of the day, not first thing. It will be tough enough getting myself out of bed so early let alone running over three miles. Plus, I’m having doubts about the adrenalin I was counting on.

When my alarm goes off, I consider skipping the race. But I surprise myself. After washing up and dressing, I stagger to the elevator and head downstairs, to the race’s registration table just outside the hotel. I see that I’ll get a water bottle and windbreaker when I finish the run, both embossed with the MGMA’s logo. Oh, goody.

—   —   —

And we’re off! Quite different than running in the solitude of nighttime, I am now running right in the midst of rush hour traffic. I do not like the fact that we’re disrupting traffic and bothering drivers as they wait for all of us to clear intersections. They are probably angrier at me than most of the others because I’m in the last tenth of the runners – they’ve been waiting awhile before I even reach the intersections.

I’m not kidding when I tell you that I’ve run two blocks and I have a stitch in my side. I never get stitches when I run! Also, I really don’t like to sweat. And yet, here I am, two blocks in, and I’m dripping like a faucet. Not cool.

It’s hard to run with a stitch in my side. At times I have to slow to a walk. It’s only when I count to double digits the number of people passing me that I am able to get myself going again.

It isn’t long before I begin to wonder where exactly I’m supposed to be running. I can’t see any runners ahead of me. I purposely let the guy behind me pass so I can follow him. He’ll know where to go. I’m so lame. I take a gander behind me to see how many runners I’m ahead of. Holy shit! Only three…and the friggin’ ambulance just behind the last runner! Driving so closely it could be in the runner’s early morning shadow. And it’s got its lights on! For shit’s sake!

I am in a mortified panic. An ambulance! The medic is probably griping to his partner about how these last runners – me included — have no business being in a 5k and complaining that we’re taking so long they’re going to have to cancel their breakfast plans.

It cannot be my ass the ambulance is riding. I have to put the pedal to the metal. But I still have a cramp in my side! A mantra begins in my head. I cannot be last. I cannot be last. I cannot be last.

I try desperately to ignore my stupid cramp. I’m “running” like a soldier after being shot in the leg. Limping pathetically along. But I’m determined to stay ahead of the last three tortoises.

Damn it! One of them passes me!

Where the hell is the finish line?! Are we even close?

Goddamn it! Another one passes me! This last asshole had better stay where he is. If he tries to pass me too, I’ll stick my leg out and trip him. I start to wonder if maybe the last runner is actually an MGMA plant. So all the legitimate runners can at least claim they didn’t come in last place.

—   —   —

Finally, the “run” is over and I have the distinction of finishing next to last. A proud moment for me. I stroke my ego by telling myself that some folks probably dropped out early and a bunch of people probably registered to run but didn’t get out of bed when their alarms went off this morning. Maybe something I should have done. But then I wouldn’t have bragging rights that I’d finished a 5k and I wouldn’t have this awesome windbreaker and cool water bottle.

—   —   —

It’s been over twenty years now since I used to run. And I only ran for maybe three years. But that doesn’t stop me from telling just about everyone I know and every doctor I’ve had, “I used to be a runner.”