JW Run Blog 2: Med Tent Jeff

 Med Tent Jeff

Maine Marathon 2005

Looking back at my training log between the Boston Marathon in April 2005 and the Maine Marathon in October, it seems that my plan was to do two speed workouts per week, plus a long run, plus some easy runs. I say “it seems” because I have no recollection of what was on my mind at that point. I just remember having my terrible Boston finishing time in the pit of my stomach, plus the shame of having to repeat my sad story of defeat over and over again. Both of these urged me to push harder. Mike and I got in the habit of doing hill repeats on the road to the top of nearby Blue Hill. He and I were both training for Maine.

On September 8, I did a tempo run with Mel C. from St. Tim’s in Norwood. At the end of the run, I felt like I couldn’t catch my breath, and that feeling wasn’t going away. After a few minutes, I figured out that the problem was that my heart rate was elevated and it wasn’t coming down. Mel drove me to Norwood Hospital and stayed with me until Sharon got there. My heart rate stayed elevated until they got heart monitors stuck to my chest and wheeled me into a room. Then--boom--it dropped to its normal rate. They kept me in the hospital the rest of the day and overnight. They did some more tests, including a stress test, but the heart episode did not repeat itself. My resting heart rate is in the mid 30s, so I kept setting off "too low" alarms on the machines. I left the hospital with a portable monitor and electric leads stuck to me. I was supposed to try to trigger another episode so they could see what was going on. I tried another tempo run, but it didn’t trigger anything. They told me that my episode was a case of SVT--supra-ventricular tachycardia. The heart gets “stuck” at an abnormal rate because of what’s basically an electrical issue. To get it to stop doing this, they taught me a couple of tricks--including bearing down like I was having a bowel movement. I wouldn’t need to use this trick until many years later. 

Two days after I got out of the hospital, I did a 22 miler at 8:13 pace. Pretty stubborn of me. I did it on a Sunday morning and went to mass afterwards. I felt like falling asleep right there in the pew. God only knows what Sharon thought of me at that point. She must have thought, “I married a crazy person. Why is he doing this to himself?” 

At the Maine Marathon, I again went out too fast. I did the first 13 miles at 7:49 pace. After mile 16, I did a 9:03 mile, then got back to sub-9:00 pace until mile 21, where I entered the 9:00s, then the 10:00s. My second-half pace was 9:07. I still didn’t know how to run a marathon, but I finished in 3:44--more than an hour faster than Boston. I was pretty excited about that. At the finish I met up with Mike. I walked, then I sat, then laid down. Mike brought me to the med tent. There I repeated my Boston experience of lying on a cot under a space blanket, shivering and trying to drink Gatorade. It was a pretty small tent with just a few cots. At one point a doctor came by and said, “He’s been in here about an hour. Just give him an IV.” They asked me if that was okay. I nodded. “This shivering and sipping is not working,” was my thought. So they jabbed a needle into my arm, connected the IV bag, and squeezed it. Oh, my God. A cool sensation started in my arm and spread through my whole body. It was the best drink of water ever. Almost instant recovery. I thought, “This is what it must be like to do drugs.” 

Boston Marathon 2006

Another waiver app got me into Boston a second time. At the beginning of Boston training, in January, I finished the Derry Boston Prep 16-Miler at 7:40 pace. I look back at that pace in wonder. Derry is a very hilly course, and I never came close to that pace again. My last mile was at 6:57 pace, and I remember it pretty clearly. I pounded out that mile and felt like I could just keep running. It was one of those very rare days when running felt almost effortless, my body just humming along. I can count on one hand races where that has happened. It is a rare gift. 

I was traveling in those days a lot for work, and my training log shows runs in Chicago, Anaheim (loops around Disneyland), Las Vegas, Dallas, and Reno. (Running is the perfect sport for business travel--just chuck shoes into the suitcase.) I also did two half marathons as part of the training--at 7:28 and 7:32 paces. All this running, all this training, leading up to my third marathon in a year. Why? There is certainly a compulsive aspect to running. “I must get out there, or” . . . Or what? Or I beat myself up. But what about my family, those around me? Is all of this best for them? If I stop, though--if I ease up, am I being true to myself? Lots of questions. I was not the best husband at this point: to bed early, up early, often fatigued . . . not what Sharon deserved. Too focused on myself. Yes, running is ultimately a selfish act.

I am aware as I sit at my computer that I’m engaged in what could be perceived as a doubly self-centered act: writing about running. Why run? Good question. Why write about it? Another good question. In telling my stories, is my goal to draw attention to myself and my accomplishments? Is it to pass along my love of running? I am not a writer by trade, yet I find myself enjoying this writing process--the rush that comes with creating something. Will this writing serve any purpose? Well, it has to me. And I hope it strikes a chord. I have a vague desire to “pay it forward” to the next generation of runners now that I find myself a running veteran with stories to tell. 

I was in good shape for my second attempt at Boston. I went out at a reasonable pace, with the first half of the race in the 8:30-9:00 minute-per-mile range. But dammit, I bonked again. At mile 17, my pace slowed to 10:00 and I got progressively slower from there. I had tried to be more strategic--slowing my pace, taking water from the water stops rather than carrying my own (as I had done in my first two marathons). Yet I finished in 4:18. I remember Mike just shaking his head at me after the race. I didn’t end up in the med tent, but I felt rough afterwards. I had more explaining to do to my friends after this race. Was I a head case? Overthinking? Not strong enough mentally? Once I started feeling the leg fatigue, my brain said, “Uh-oh, here we go again.” And I slowed down rather than bearing down through the rough parts. But I also didn’t listen to my body very well. It took me a while to figure out that before I start overheating, I need to find ways to cool myself off. 

This is about where it started to sink in that with the marathon, the highs are high, and the lows are low. The training is difficult and the outcome on race day is uncertain. That good feeling from Maine had turned into another mighty struggle at Boston. The picture here shows me on Boylston Street at the end. Very glad to be done.