My Half-Marathon Disaster

Roger Bannister never made the pit stop I did

Some years ago, I thought I needed to try another way to relieve stress. I exercised at the gym, but it wasn’t enough. “Maybe I should try running. Maybe even a marathon one day?” ---- Are you crazy? asked Jiminy Cricket, my conscience. He was a snarky snot.

Well, the more I thought about it, the more intrigued I became. “Where do I start?”

At medical meetings, I would look out my hotel window before the sessions started, and behold, runners... doctors, hundreds of them winding by in a collective, purposeful pace.

“They’re nuts,” I thought. “That’s a huge dose of compulsivity out there. I’m going to breakfast.”

Time passed. I dwelled on it. “Gotta try.”

So, of course, I amassed all the running books I could and commenced cautiously; first to the end of the block, then around the block, two blocks... well, you know the drill.

At first, I was intimidated, but with each success, I became more excited. And I learned to tolerate the pain.

Ouuu, my heart is pounding, ouch, those calf cramps kill, yep, that’s what sucking wind is, dam, gotta take a hot bath, yes, more aspirin, get the heating pad.

---- Stop, says Jiminy. But I didn’t.

I was adjusting. Breathing came easier, my legs were reattached, my lungs grew more alveoli, and something about endorphins came into play. What once seemed miles-away-impossible was now happening.

Soon, I was running up to ten miles on weekend days. I lived on the east side of Providence, so that meant to Pawtucket and back. Two hours to run, one hour to nap, shower, and I was relaxed, near comatose. Mission accomplished. Now what? A marathon?

I had a long way to go. I started with a 10K. Whew, surprise. A race is different from a practice. Do better, run faster, beat someone. Compulsive behavior reared its head again, so I needed to retract. I decided to be tactical for the next 10K.

Pace myself, try to catch and overtake the person in front of me. As I did so, I noted more than a few, like lots, of runners doing the same, but now passing me.

More practice, then another 10K, and another until I reduced my time to 7.5-minute miles. Yes, yes, I know. Roger Bannister broke the four-minute mile barrier, and HE was a doctor. So . . .

I even knew how to do fartleks. Go ahead, look it up; it’s real.

Now I was ready for a bigger test, a half-marathon in anticipation of the big one. I found a race in New Bedford. I ate pasta every day for a week.

The big day came. I donned my running outfit, laced the shoes, and got lost among what seemed like millions of runners at the start. I was there somewhere. I heard a gun, and I started, first a walk because the multitude was in the way, then a jog, then I was at MY full speed.

At the 10K mark, I heard a voice, “Go. You got it. You’re doing great!” It was my wife, ever enthusiastic and supportive. I straightened, ran a little faster, and felt good.

“Yup. I got this.”

I came to a stretch of road along the New Bedford waterfront and confronted an enemy slashing against my face, the wind, the cold wind. I realized at that point that my baggy running pants, more like parachutes that caught every gust of wind, suggested I should be training for the America’s Cup. They slowed me. I felt like I was running in jelly.

The book said, “Get nearer to the runner ahead to stay in his draft.” Well, I was alone. And the runner ahead was barely a speck.

Ok, I trundled along and then BOOM! They hit. Cramps. No, not in my legs. Rather in my gut. It started with rumbles, turned to hard-edged cramps as in, “I gotta go.”

- - Ha, I told you so,” said that nasty cricket.

I was a physiologist. I knew that the bouncing, combined with dehydration, blood flow diverted from the digestive system, and pre-race jitters, were triggering my "runner's trots."

It's one of the aspects of long-distance running that doesn't get talked about or written about much, but it happens to be common.

But guess what. As a gastroenterologist, I had read about runners’ cramps and urgency, and I was ready. Yep, I had a bunch of tissues in the rear pocket of my sailing pants. But tissues were not about to stem my panic.

I gotta go, but where? My mental battle now shifted from passing runners to passing something else. And there was no way I was dropping out.

I spotted what looked like a maintenance building up ahead, and with a moan, I made my way, turned the corner, and was now in the rear of the brick building. There I spotted a few guys who had the same malady. As I squatted, being sure to clear the sailing pants, I turned my head from one side to the other to say “Hello” to my companions.

“How ya doin’, Buddy?” No answers. These guys looked the way I felt --- queasy sick. Like distressed patients in running shorts. But at least they were wearing shorts, not pants.

Mission accomplished, I yanked my balloons, tied ‘em up, and headed back to the race. It was nearly impossible to return to the seven ++ minute pace after a squat. I had not read that in my running books.

Gad, years of gastroenterology training, and I was defeated by my own colon.

“Thought you were smart, eh?” ---- Scram Jiminy. What do crickets know?

I had two miles to go, finished, did not feel great, but well enough to eat a pound of spaghetti (It was ‘free’) in the meeting hall. I ate like a caveman, so much so that I dreamt in Italian that night.

I proceeded to the parking area where Diane was waiting, got in the car, slammed the door, turned to her, and said, “That’s it. Never again. No more running. No marathon.”

“Why. What happened?”

“Let’s just say that Roger Bannister never had to make the kind of pit stop I did. If so, he would Neavh! have broken the four-minute mile.

---- Ha-ha. Jiminy again.

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