Best-Laid Plans

I can’t go through everything that’s happened in the last three weeks, but I’ll briefly note that I rebuffed my wimpy calf strain with a resounding 22 miler. Through stretching, cross training, and some quality time at SPI with a rubber ball, a trampoline, and Pieter's knuckles on the back of my leg, my calf healed up nicely.

Now I skip to race week, counting down the final days before New York.

I swear I am not making this up.


---Tuesday, October 28th---

I’m at SPI Tuesday morning for a last-minute appointment with Dr. Spears. It’s not a nerve issue, calf issue, foot, leg, hip or any runner-related issue. No. It’s my elbow.

It is the size of a grapefruit.

Monday night was terrible. Sleepless, fever, chills, feeling of total crappiness. And I kept turning over onto my elbow, which, one more time for emphasis, is the size of a grapefruit.

It’s so disgusting it scares Dr. Spears’ assistant, Lisa, as she walks through the door.

“Whoa, that looks awful, we need to drain that. Lie down on the bed and extend your arm toward the floor.”

“I can’t straighten it out.”

“Well, just kind of let it hang there, as best you can.”

Two minutes after inserting the needle into my elbow and holding it in place, she pulls it out exasperated.

“That’s so weird, I couldn’t get any fluid out of it. Dr. Spears needs to see this.”

Doc walks in, widens his eyes a bit, and immediately asks me to raise both my arms.

“Yeah, look at that. He’s got a staph or strep infection and it’s septic. See this pink line shooting up the underside of his arm? I think it got in through the dried up skin on his elbow. Have you been around livestock or spent any time in a barn lately?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Do you work at a dog kennel?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“How about a hospital?”

"Does this place count? I spend more time here than some of your staff."

“There’s a concern about whether this the run-of-the-mill or drug resistant variety. We’ll put you on antibiotics and if it’s not the bad kind that should take care of it.”

“What about running?”

“I’d take it easy for 10 days.”

“But I’m running the New York Marathon in five days.”

Pause

“Oh. Well, I’ll put you on Ceftin, it’s pretty potent. And oral meds nowadays are just as fast as an injection. My advice would be to take it easy, go to New York, and see how you’re feeling on Saturday before deciding to run.”

“What are the odds I’ll be 100% by Sunday?”

“Honestly, I think it’s pretty slim. You’ve got a major systemic infection right now. The drugs should work, but five days to be back in marathon mode is a pretty quick turnaround for something like this.”

Wow.

I can’t believe this is happening. Is this like a dream or something? Am I being punked?

Two days on the antibiotics and I finally start to feel some effects. My elbow now looks more like a baseball. Thursday afternoon I test the waters with a 4 miler. A lumbering effort. Way more work than it should be. And it hits me hard an hour later. Wiped out and lethargic, I pack my bags for the Friday morning flight, gambling on a full recovery by Sunday.

My travel day goes fairly well and I’m starting to think I can pull it off. I try again Saturday morning with 3 miles around Prospect Park in Brooklyn. Bleh. Better than Thursday, but the results certainly aren’t stellar. This is not encouraging. I withhold any decision for the next few hours hoping the expo will inspire a surge of enthusiasm. By the time I get to the Jacob Javits Center in midtown Manhattan to pick up my race bib, however, I am awash in weakness and malaise.

Once again, I can’t believe this is happening. I should be bouncing off the walls right now but all I want to do is curl up in a fetal position. How am I going to do this? Forget a BQ, now the question is finishing. Did I come up here for a completely miserable experience?

I stay at the expo for more than two hours, alternating between mindlessly browsing the booths and sitting on the floor against a wall, trying to rest and find some clarity. With thirty minutes left on my options, I walk over to the cancellation desk. I hand the volunteer my bib. She draws an “X” from corner to corner in permanent marker and tosses it in a box with the other defiled numbers. Man. I was going to frame that thing.

I walk out into the city obviously distraught, bummed out, and perplexed. But not completely irrational. By dropping out at the expo rather than trying to run the next morning, I secured a spot in New York next year. And I saved myself for another fall marathon to keep me in the game for Boston. An hour later in my friend’s apartment in Brooklyn, I pull out my laptop and sign up for Dallas.

Still in the city Wednesday morning, three days after the marathon, I finally get my crack at the last few miles of the course in Central Park. With 800 yards to go, I round the corner near Columbus Circle and race past the empty grandstand, which is being dismantled. I ask a worker where the finish line is.

“See that Verizon truck? Right there.”

I run over to the Verizon truck and stop in the middle of the road.

This is it. I'm throwing down.

"Yo, New York! This is Robert. From TEXAS. New York! I'm calling you out. You listening? Check your INBOX, New York! Cause I just sent you an E-VITE! I've got an appointment with you right here at this spot on Sunday, November 1, 2009, the date of next year's marathon. At 12:40pm."

"Exactly three hours after the First Wave Start at 9:40."

"November 1st, 2009, 12:40pm. Right here, dudes. And don't be late."

Pause

Man. That was pretty severe.

Long Pause

"Make it 12:45."