Musings mostly about our family, particularly our college-age daughter and our junior-high-year-old twins with some business and cooking and other observations thrown in... Copyright 1999-2012 by Ed Kmetz.

Wednesday, January 20, 1999

Running for Diabetes

January, 1999
A Brief History of the Diabetes Run
And a Thank You to the donors. You’re making a difference!


#1 on the list of things you don’t want to hear Friday morning:

“Flight 1535 to Bermuda is CANCELLED due to a MECHANICAL DEFECT. The soonest we can get you there is 1 p.m. Sunday. Maybe.”

What? 6 months of training, worn out shoes, 5 a.m. wake-ups, running in broiling heat and on glare ice & snow & slush, grubbing donations from people all over the country, and you expect us to sit still and accept that we can’t even get to the race until the winners have already crossed the finish line?

I don’t think so.


July, 1998


Eye-catching it is – the green & white brochure loudly promoting “TEAM Diabetes – Bermuda Marathon – January 17, 1999.” Raise a bunch of dough to benefit Diabetes, train hard. To quote the brochure “Whether you are a long distance runner or an accomplished couch potato, we’ll be there for you.” I was surely a committed member of the second category; nevertheless, the idea was intriguing. I’d write a stack of letters, mail the contributions which would doubtless come tumbling in faster than I could collate, run during the week, run long during the weekend, lose weight, and meet a bunch of interesting people along the way.

It might even be easy.

I was much younger then.

I attended the very last “no obligation informational meeting,” conveeeeniently held at the library in Cheshire. Debbie from the local ADA office gave a nice presentation, pretty darn convincing. Beside myself, there were perhaps 8 others at the meeting. The college kid who looked like he could run a 5-minute mile with one foot tied behind his back. Another woman, a grandmother no less, Barb Something from a little town along the shore. A woman, didn’t catch her name, who was planning on walking. Several others. A mixed bag of folks to be sure.

I didn’t sign on the line at the meeting because I had to check out a few things – what percentage of donations to ADA actually went to help people with Diabetes, the tax deduction angle, could I do the running. As it turned out, the ADA boasts one of the top “goes to help” percentages of the “big charities” so no problem there. Tax deduction was a gimmie. I ran the first week of the training schedule to see how it actually felt. Felt OK. So it was “all systems go” when I wrote the check to register, thinking about the other folks at the meeting, and how, if at all, we’d see each other as time went on.

Who would’ve guessed that Brenda who was planning on walking would instead run, and run well. That Barb would literally have us running rings around Branford, the little town along the shore. I am proud to call them both, as well as many outstanding runners I met along the way – Lynn, Alexis, Gerard, Jeff, Diedre, Gary, Melissa, Mary, and others – friends.

And you know, we never did hear from the college kid.

The slog

If I was thinking of writing a book, I guess I would’ve kept a day-by-day diary of the training schedule. But I wasn’t and I didn’t, so I hope you’re satisfied with some random recollections.

• Week 2. My first week with the team. A group of us met on a hot Sunday morning in late July or early August. The schedule said 7 miles, I think we planned on 5. About 4 too many as far as I was concerned. Walked most of the way. A few of us got lost, which added an extra mile or so. Cursed the extra mile or so. Wondered, severely, what I was getting into.

• Week 3. Another 5 or 7 miles, take your pick, another Sunday morning. Still walked most of the way, but didn’t, at least, get lost this time. Still wondered “what does a marathon feel like if this is 5 miles.” However, if they can do it, I can do it. Peer pressure is a wonderful thing and the watermelon at the end was oh so delicious.

• Week 4. Supposed to be 9 miles, but we were lagging a little behind the official training schedule (not that there’s anything wrong with that). I think we did around 7, but the really good news is that we were able to run/walk along a rarely used road in the middle of nowhere. No traffic. Lots of trees. Great watermelon.

• Week 5. We did a road trip to Branford, where Barb had gone out the night before to plot the course. The day started out hot, and got hotter. Killer, drop over type hot. Questioned, again, the value of doing this. Decided, still, it was a good idea. Besides, there’s that darn peer pressure thing.

• Week 7 or so. Ran along the trail in the middle of nowhere again. Not walking quite so much anymore. And the checks are starting to come in – a very nice check and “go for it” note from my brother, my mother putting the arm on the rest of the gang at the retirement community where she lives, Karen’s aunt & uncle, our Allstate agent from Pennsylvania, guys from the glider club. The list is growing. There’s no way out now. Good.

• About Week 8, the Saturday before Labor Day. Took Max the Golden Retriever Next Door for our standard Saturday a.m. run, just a couple miles. The run is finished, Max is his usual thrilled to be here, tail spinning like a helicopter blade. We’re walking the last 100 ft. to the front door, cooling off.

Bang! – Suddenly feels like the ankle is filled with broken glass. Didn't trip over the dog. Didn't slip into a hole. Nuttin.' Walking one second and howling in pain from an inward-buckled left ankle the next. Didn’t fall down. Should’ve. A major sprain. Just like that.

There goes the plan to run in the New Haven 20K race on Labor Day. There goes the plan to run much of anything for weeks. This is Very Not Good.

• Week 13 or 15, I’m basically back on the horse. It’s October, and a bit cooler. I’ve been running around 4 or 5 miles nearly every day at lunchtime, and the ankle is feeling better. I hook back into the group for the Sunday morning runs. Despite taking it very easy for about the whole month of September, I’m down around 15 lbs.

• Week 19, we travel to Pittsburgh for Thanksgiving. That Sunday I map out an out-and-back course near my sister’s house to do 18 miles, my longest run to date. The day is surprisingly warm, a gorgeous fall day, delicious sunshine. The run is brutal. Pittsburgh is hills, all hills. The first and last 6 miles are hilly, but manageable. The middle 6 miles are 1.5 miles down, 1.5 miles up, turn around at the Amoco station near the Duke of Bubbles Car Wash, then 1.5 miles down, 1.5 miles up. Try this sometime. No fair to try it in a car.

• Week 23. Down 25 lbs. First time to do 20 miles. I leave in the afternoon and later, Karen drives out in the dark looking for me, hoping that I’m wearing reflective stuff. Finds me 2 miles from home. I run the last 2 miles. She’s proud, I’m proud. I’m tired. But hey, I can run 20 miles, and no walking. I can do this marathon. What the heck, the marathon is only another 6.2 miles beyond this. How bad can another 6.2 be?

I was much younger then.

• Week 26. A “don’t get hurt” week. Run a few miles here and there. No sweat. We pack for the car trip to Philadelphia, where we’re leaving Donna with her cousins for the time we’re in Bermuda. A storm threatens the east coast, and the roads are lousy between CT and PA, but we know we’ll get there. The trip normally takes 3.5 hours in clear weather, Thursday night it takes 6. But hey, USAir says that the flight is still scheduled to fly the next morning, as scheduled, out of Philadelphia.

Friday morning we awake, confirm yet again that the flight is still a “go” and leave for the airport. At the airport Karen and I check our bags at the counter, mosey to the gate, buy a coffee, and settle in for the 30 minute or so wait to board the airplane. We’re ON THE WAY to Bermuda.

We were much younger then.


Friday, January 15, 1999

“Flight 1535 to Bermuda is CANCELLED due to a MECHANICAL DEFECT. The soonest we can get you there is 1 p.m. Sunday. Maybe.”

“Your best bet is to walk over to the payphones, dial the 800 number, and try to find alternate flights for yourself.

“Your bags are locked up, we’ll try to put them on your next flight, or we’ll ship them back to your house. It is NOT OUR POLICY to let you have your bags once they’re checked.”

We’re sorry for the inconvenience. And thanks for flying USAirways!


No no no. This wouldn’t do at all. Particularly aggravating was watching the plane with the alleged MECHANICAL DEFECT get fueled and depart 20 minutes later with a planeload of people to Indianapolis. Something rotten in the woodpile, lemme tell you. Sure didn’t seem like a defective plane (as it vanished into the wild gray yonder).

A mere hour on the phone, mostly on hold, later, I was able to secure some seats on a Delta flight connecting through Atlanta Saturday morning. I said “connect us through any place warm” and they did. Another hour, and $20, later a skycap appeared with the bags that USAir’s policy forbade them to give us. In fact, for another $20, he managed to find a few other bags for some folks also trying to get to the marathon. Nothing invigorates me more than those three little words I love to hear – “Not Our Policy.”

USAir did pay for a night at the world-famous Holiday Inn next to Veterans Stadium.

However, we do highly recommend the pasta buffet at the Holiday Inn Stadium.

But I digress.

Saturday, January 16


Made it to Bermuda! All baggage & body parts intact. A day later than we’d planned, but we’re here. Saturday evening is filled with a great deal of talk concerning the stunning creativity and never-say-die involved in getting the people here, here.

Lynn and her sister Helen took the train from New Haven to Baltimore, to get iced out in Balto, to take another train back north somewhere, to connect through somewhere else, to make it to Bermuda. Three hours sleep in two days, and those three hours on a commuter train. I think I got the story straight, but if I didn’t I’m sure the reality is even worse. Brenda, a nightmare. Barb and her husband Mike, a nightmare. Others connected through Boston, or Newark, or like us, through Atlanta. The last flight arrived around midnight Saturday, with the race starting in mere hours. Many people didn’t get seats at all, and just went home. We heard several in this predicament at the gate in Phila, and heard about many more. If there was anything sad about the experience, this was it.

But we are marathoners. We’re here, and nothing can stop us now. Following a dinner heavy on the carbs, we go to bed early for the 5 a.m. wakeup call to prepare for the 7 a.m. start. I fall asleep in minutes, and do not dream.


Sunday, January 17. Race Day.


04:45 – alarm goes off like a nuclear bomb. Incredibly, Karen insists on getting up with me (if you look under the antonym for morning person, there’s her picture) and she gets in the shower first. I welcome the few extra minutes rest, but then it’s time for me, too. I’m in go mode, ready to roll.

05:30 – meet for breakfast with the rest of our “early starter” gang. A great buffet, but the runners are uninterested in eating much, maybe half a bagel, a bit of fruit, some egg. The support crew tucks in like stevedores, because they can.

05:55 – shuttle bus leaves for Front Street in Hamilton, right on schedule. Refreshing to have something operate on schedule.

06:45 – drinking in the experience, 15 minutes to race start. No one’s too chatty, a few people comment on the interesting sensations, waiting to start our first marathon. Tough to describe the feeling – perhaps a combination of waiting to go into the dentist’s chair, waiting for a NASA launch, and, oddly, a certain sense of completion already. We’re stretched out and ready to go.

07:00 – Runners, take your marks. . . Go!
Mile 1 – Pacing nicely. They warned us to run the first mile at the same pace as we expect to run the last, for us rookies that’s around 12 minutes. Little did we know what that last mile would actually be like.

Mile 2.5 – the first water stop already? Hah! We drink because those who know say to drink at every opportunity. It turns out to be by far the single best piece of advice for reasons that will become apparent later.

Mile 5 – Feeling fine. We’re certainly not out to break any records, and it’s been great great great so far. We’ve stopped here and there to snap photos, we’re chatting. Plenty of encouragement. The field is stretched out by this point, and if you want to, you can run all by yourself. Four of us (Lynn, Barb, Brenda, me) stick together.

Mile 8 – Loose, still A-OK. This is as close as I’ve ever come to a “runner’s high.” Let me call it a “runner’s medium.” I don’t feel giddy or anything, but there’s no pain. We’re in the groove.

Mile 10 – our first contact with the pit crew of Karen, Anne, and Lee. We spot Karen first, her pink belly pack rather, uh, prominent – quite noticeable from down the hill. Great to see them, and hear their words of encouragement. We stop to say “hi,” and drink some of their water and take some of their ice. Conditions are surprisingly miserable for Bermuda in January – temperature 76o, humidity 96%. Did I mention that Bermuda is mostly hills?

Mile 13.1 – the course is two 13.1 mile laps around the main part of Bermuda, and we cross the finish line for the first time. We know it will be quite a bit different the next time around. . . We see our pit crew again, they took a short cut; they comment on how good the four of us look. I keep reminding myself that this is only the first of two halfway points I have come to expect – this one, which is halfway on the odometer and the next, theoretical, one at the 20 mile mark. We’ve also heard that “the race really starts at 20 miles.” We’ll see. None of us has run more than 20 miles to this point.

Mile 14.5 or so – Kenyan Simon Cherogony, the leader from tape to tape, the eventual winner, blows by. It has taken him a little over 1 hour to cover the distance we did in a little over 3. Amazing, just amazing. You can see his feet touch the ground once in a while, but you have to look close. Someone wonders aloud why those Kenyans bother with cars. Good question. Go Simon, Go!

Mile 16 – only 10 miles and small change to the finish! Heck, we do 10 miles on any Sunday. But man, it’s hot. Keep drinking.

Mile 18 – Tired. Hungry. Brenda and I have ended up running together and we stop in a convenience store for some crackers and other junk. Who cares about time?

Mile 20 – the second halfway point. 6.2 to go. 6.2 seems like a lot. We enter uncharted territory.

Mile 21.5 or so – the left knee, which has been hurting for a while, starts to rebel in earnest. I encourage Brenda, who is much tougher than me, to run. She wants to, and can, and does. As she vanishes around one of the hundreds of twists and turns on the course I wish her well. I also hope she sends the buzzards circling back after me to pick over the carcass. I walk.

Mile 22 – Feels GREAT when I stop and bend the knee. Zero pain. Hurts A LOT when I stretch the leg out to start moving again. If there is “the wall” in a marathon, this is it. I have found it, and embraced it. I know the wall. I hate the wall.

Mile 22.5 – you know, Ed, you can stop now you can rest that knee you can bend it and the pain will melt away like ice cream on hot asphalt. You can sit right here in the soft, warm grass. Sleep a while. . .

Hah!

Mile 22.7 – Debbie from ADA, working backward from the finish line rides up on a scooter and asks how I’m doing. Bless her, she has concern in her voice. I lie and say fine. I lie that the knee hurts “a little” but tell the truth that I’m otherwise OK, not lightheaded or anything like that. I give her the leftovers from my bag from the convenience store and continue hobbling forward. She wishes me well and disappears behind, looking for bodies. I like Debbie. I hate the scooter.

Mile 23 – there’s Karen and Anne and Lee! So great to see them! I stop for 20 seconds, and it’s a big mistake. The knee tightens miserably. Anne begs a couple Tylenols from the Team Leukemia crowd across the street, and they graciously oblige. When I was much younger, I’d invited Lee to jog the last 3.2 miles with me. He’s ready to go, but of course is forced to only walk along. As we go by, I thank the Leukemia folks for the Tylenols. I jokingly ask Lee if he can keep up. Lee could keep up if he was walking on his hands.

Mile 24 – the Tylenols kick in. I pick up the pace to a brisk walk.

Mile 24.5 – we see a runner on the ground just ahead, collapsed this close to the finish line. Lee jumps ahead to see if he can help, but they’ve got the situation under control, and the ambulance is ready to take the guy away. This brings to a sharp focus the ongoing battle diabetics face – every day, every single day. My admiration for the runners with diabetes (and there are many in this race) soars. My little annoyance with the knee is nothing in comparison. Nothing.

Mile 25 – a mile to go. Bring on the wild horses! Try to stop me!
Mile 25.5 – spontaneously, I break into a run. It’s nothing I think about, it just happens.

Mile 26 – the crowd lines both sides of the street. Everyone is cheering – for me! Some guy they don’t know, way way back in the pack, and they’re cheering loud and cheering long. Feels like a million bux.

Mile 26.1 – I hear my name on the loudspeaker. There’s the finish line.

Mile 26.2 – Karen is there, right at the finish line, standing on the other side of a low fence. A race official tears the ID strip from the number tag pinned to the front of my shirt. A kid hands me a medal, heavy. Another kid hands me a Mylar blanket with the sponsoring bank logo in case I feel the need to stay warm. Staying warm is the last thing I need to do. Tears and kisses from Karen. Congratulations from Anne and Lee. Relief.

I find some steps and sit down. Sitting is good.


Epilogue

So this little adventure draws to a close with quite a mixture of emotions:

Gratitude – Thank you for your donation. It goes not only to help the 8 million people in the US with diabetes, but goes to find and educate the other 8 million who have it but don’t know it yet. You kept me going during the weeks of training and hours of the race and you’re continuing to make a difference right now.

Pride – Word on the street was that of the 700 (give or take) people that started the race, fewer than 500 finished. Whether these numbers are accurate or not, I have no idea but in any case I am proud to be one of the finishers, finishing vertically, and not even strapped to an appliance dolly or stretcher at the time. And lest you worry, as I write this a few days later the knee is completely fine. Finishing is good. Vertical is good.

Gratitude – to the pit crew of Karen, Anne, and Lee, who went way beyond the call of duty, and who were adopted by the rest of the Connecticut Team Diabetes. You guys are super.

Friendship – to friends old and friends new. We’re already making plans to keep up with this running stuff and thinking about the next marathon, if you can believe it.

I can.

Ed Kmetz

January 20, 1999

Followers

About Me

My photo
Copyright 1999-2012 Ed Kmetz. All Rights Reserved. ALL broadcast, publication, retransmission to e-mail lists, WWW or any other copying or storage, in any medium, online or not, is STRICTLY PROHIBITED without PRIOR written permission from the author. MANUAL FORWARDING by e-mail to friends is allowed IF 1) the text is forwarded IN ITS ENTIRETY, from the Copyright line on top through the end of this paragraph and 2) NO FEE is charged.