Today, Super Bowl Sunday 2008, is the two year anniversary of the day I almost died while working out, the first time. This was long before my triathlon days and only two weeks after my first marathon.
The story goes like this:
Matt, a friend of mine, had invited me to go to Huntington Beach with him where he would be running a marathon in an effort to qualify for the upcoming Boston. He asked me to go along with him and suggested that I run the half -- guess he thought I needed something to do during the MERE 3 hours it would take him to pound out 26 miles (this guy was a machine). I decided to go along in support -- after all, there were worse things than running 13 miles and hanging out with Hottie Matt in California for the weekend. And what was a measly half marathon after completing the full distance two weeks prior?
In a perfect world the weekend would have gone like this:
Matt qualifies for Boston in sub 3:10, I set a personal record, and we spend the rest of the day drinking at a bar on the beach and rooting for the Steelers.
In a slightly less than perfect world:
Matt qualifies for Boston, I run a slow half marathon, and we make it to the bar in time to see the Rolling Stones perform and catch the second half.
The real world, however, was neither perfect, nor less than perfect. It was, quite possibly, the worst case scenario. Let me set the scene:
The morning was classic California, foggy and damp. The course was a maze of So Cal neighborhoods full of rolling hills. My perspective was skewed after my recent marathon success. Thirteen miles was nothing! And right there I had made my first mistake -- not respecting the distance. I went out entirely too hard. My splits were way too low, 15-30 seconds faster than planned. My heart rate was far too high, 10-15 beats out of range. I made a half-ass effort to slow down, but my ego was speaking louder that my head. Instead, I kept on pushing and blew by all the water stations in an effort to save precious seconds.
I knew Matt would qualify for Boston -- that wasn't even a question. I guess I too wanted something to celebrate at the end of the day. So I just kept running -- FAST. But then towards 8 or 9 I felt myself slow down, and the hills became harder to climb. I tried to calculate how much I could slow my pace and still make it in under two hours. Then my recollection gets foggy. I remember feeling so exhausted that I had trouble keeping my eyes open. I would run ten steps with my eyes closed, open them for two, then close them for another ten. If mile 9 was "foggy" then 10 was "blurry" and by 11 I had totally blacked out. I have no memory of running the last two miles. The rest of the story was retold to me by the race medical staff:
I crossed the finish line and immediately collapsed into a planter of shrubs and flowers. If I did one thing right that day it was choosing the right place to pass out. I keeled over right next to the medical tent so that all the two medics had to do was pop out the door and carry me right back in. I was hooked up to a machine, my vitals read. I was immediately put on oxygen, an IV, and they continued to monitor my heart rate, blood pressure, breathing etc. The next thing I remember is coming to, being yanked up into a seated position and throwing up everything in my stomach; and when there was nothing left to throw up I sat there, dry heaving until my stomach muscles ached.
The next few hours were frightening to say the least. When your body is in shock, nothing works properly. It becomes hard to focus your eyes, you can't form sentences, it's hard to move and every muscle cramps when you try -- even your arms. You shiver like you're in the middle of a snow storm and you heart beats like you're still running the race. The only thing you can do is try to hydrate and wait it out. An older male medic had been assigned to me, and so he stood there, continually refilling my paper cup, alternating with grape gatorade and water until I thought I would burst from all the liquid in my belly.
I lay there, wondering how I would find Matt, worrying that I had done some type of permanent damage to myself, and thanking God that I had not written my emergency contact info on the back of my race bib. My mom did NOT need to know that I was laid out, attached to an IV, somewhere in California. The rest of the weekend was not as glamorous as expected. I spent a lot time kneeling in front of the hotel toilet; I think I even threw up in the shower -- NICE! I threw up so much grape Gatorade that I haven't been able to drink it since.
Fast forward two years . . . obviously I survived. I survived to see my finish photo on "Action Sports International" -- me in mid-fall, eyes closed, looking as good as I felt. I haven't had as serious of an incident since, and I obviously learned something about my "limits" in the process. Well, I guess I should say that I HOPE I learned something in the process, because I will admit, and this is the most concerning part of this story -- my first question upon waking up in the medical tent was: DID I FINISH??? And the second: WHAT WAS MY TIME???
And the answer is . . . drum roll please . . . 1:56:35. Just 73 seconds faster than my personal record. I nearly kill myself for 73 seconds? I just wasted 73 seconds searching "past results" on active.com! The sacrifices we're willing to make as athletes are sometimes unwise and many times not worth it. We are weird, arguably stupid people . . . but we do have good stories.
I guess maybe it goes to show that you can take the athlete out of the race, but you can NEVER take the race out of the athlete.
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