I have been a runner for about 25 years, starting in my mid-20's, seeing running as a good way to stay in shape for skiing. My exercise addiction has grown with each passing River Bank Run, each finishers medal and t-shirt. After about 15 years of nightmarish chaffing, I worked myself into some halfway middling shape, and developed a serious marathon obsession along the way. I actually thought I was close to a breakthrough. I was running 3 oh somethings, and was chomping at the bit to break the 3 hour barrier. Instead, I broke into the world of Unhealthy Runner’s. In a testament to my arrested development and immaturity, I developed Juvenile Onset Diabetes at age 37. Type I. The kind with needles, vials of insulin and blood monitoring gadgets you see on TV these days.
At first I thought it was the end of the road. I wailed and moaned. How can a sick person do what I wanted to do? I pictured myself as a frail, depressed guy cooped up in a dark room with rusty needles lying around. But then I got to thinking about what diabetes entailed, and it somehow sounded like the perfect disease for me. I mean, I was already watching my diet, I knew the importance of keeping tract of carbohydrate intake, and I was sort of obsessive about all of my bodily functions, all byproducts of trying to be a better runner. How much of a difference was being a diabetic going to make?
I didn’t stop running one day because of diabetes. I learned to adapt. I had to watch out for low blood sugar while running, as this phenomenon would wipe me out like being wasted drunk, and could kill me. But that is easily remedied just by carrying one of those little GU flasks filled with some sort of sugary stuff. I was slower, for sure, but it was better than never running again. Much better. I would show up for races and it seemed no one even noticed the difference, or they were polite enough not to let on (which is a tribute to how kind runners tend to be). I just had to recalibrate my Pros for AD, After Diabetes. It was like being in a new age group.
After about 10 years of dealing with this, I thought I was doing pretty damn good. I was staying fit and keeping my disease under control. But then, a year and half ago, I had a heart attack. I had just registered for the Boston Marathon, and was psyched to get training... and felt a suffocating pain in my chest. It turns out that heart disease is the most common way people with diabetes die, even if their cholesterol levels are good, as mine are. I guess I would have died, except my exercise fetish saved my ass. Being a runner, I had developed collateral arteries in my heart that compensated for my blocked artery. It was a natural bypass.
Part of my heart died. I didn’t know if I could continue to run. The doctor said I’d better take it easy for a while. So I did. I ran slowly. But I kept running. In fact I ran more. I figured if I had to go easy, I would go long. And even though I was slow as a turtle, I ran Boston anyway. No one was going to keep me from running that awesome race one more time.
I still feel pain in my heart, but just when I’m warming up, and now I can run hard and long. I have to train my butt off to qualify for Boston, but I have done it, defective product or not.
I think these ordeals have actually been more of a positive than negative. I have been forced to come to terms with the fragility of life; no matter how healthy and fit one is, the body can be transformed in a heartbeat. I have also become more aware of other people’s problems, especially runners with problems. It’s almost rare to find someone who doesn’t have some physical or mental ailment. To see all these fighters, with their huge obstacles, standing at the starting line adds a heroic dimension to the drama.
I am so thankful to have a heart and body that will get me down the trail. Even if I’m lucky, there will be untold other issues to deal with down the road. Running is a blessing and it saved my life. I know that through my experiences as a runner, and from the company of others I have had over the miles, that attitude can change the whole journey. I remember one Portland Marathon, at about mile 16, the group I was running with was starting to worry about the hill up ahead, and how crappy they were going to feel at mile 22, and if they would still have energy for a finishing surge, and this woman said "I’m not worried. I say bring it on!”
Of course that may sound cocky, tempting Fate, and it’s easy to say, harder to do. We don’t seem to have much control over what happens to us, but we do have some power over our how we look at it. With the right attitude, there is less to worry about. The hills up ahead, the Wall, whatever, I say bring it on.