Having spent the last 24 years chasing down drug dealers, hookers, and other scum, I was ill prepared for the first chase of my life where none of the people I was after were destined for a jail cell.For the first time, handcuffs and pepper spray would not signify the end of my foot pursuit. Not only did I fail to make an arrest once the people running away from me finally ground to a gasping halt and I caught them (ironically, all at the same location), I don't think ANYBODYin that 5K race finishedup injail. Imagine my disappointment.
My foot pursuit that day began in the sterility ofa doctor's office, to the sounds of a white noise machine—undoubtedly so nobody could hear me false start—about two months prior. And false start I did. Over a week long period of time, as multiple tests came back, mydoc informed me that not only did I have high blood pressure, but I had also developed Type 2 diabetes. My award that day for successfully achieving diabetic status was a glucose monitor, strips and lancets. Oh yeah, and medication for the heart. "And oh, by the way," he said (these are never good from a doctor looking over test results), "Your cells are insulin resistant, and since you already exercise,you've either got touse massive amounts of cardio to get yourdiabetes under control, or we put you on pills for that too, and see where ittakes us. There is no cure, only control."
I thanked him...not sure why.
Not to be outdone, his starched up pretentious little snot nosed recent nursing school graduate student decided to throw her two dollars and change on the pile heaped over my head:
"And you could stand to lose five pounds."
"If I do, then I'm all better?"
"Well, no."
The white noise was the nicest thing I heard during thatvisit to myfuture mortician's best friends.
I had the urge to run away from people who were, it seemed,predicting my demise if I did nothing.Running away is doing something, right? I've weight trained and done mild cardio for years...exactly asmy Police Academy instructors taught as ameans of avoiding morticians back when I was 22 years old, about to be handed my first gun,badge, and bullet resistant vest (that's right, they just resist bullets, not stop 'em).I've had more than my share of foot pursuits under wire clothes lines—and into them—in neighborhoods where folks often preferred to see an officer leaving as opposed to running toward their doorsteps.I could handle without injury (okay, maybe minor injury like a twisted ankle or pulled muscle) bailing out of a patrol car cold and running someone down in amighty burst of foot speed. Butmy shins ached at the thought of reverting to running as a form of eluding death, avoiding my own capture by a shadowy figurewith a sickle.Running on pavement and even dirt had been agony duringthe Police Academy. By graduation day myshin splints were screaming forice packs just from the walk up three steps onto a stage so I could shake the Mayor's hand and receive my bandages…I mean badge.
Now at age 47, on a policeman's salary, the simple way outof the doctor's office was torun. I thought,"I've given my shins 25 years to heal. Maybe those splints won't come back."
Wrong.
My wife, Karen, God bless her, got me back into running shoes this past July just after the diagnoses. My buddies Shin and Splint came back of their own accord shortly thereafter. I soon felt myself heading for a big DNF (did not finish) in the game of life; diabetes and high blood pressure favored to win.
Life or death? Which one will chase me down first?
The split at what I hoped was at least my "half" in life showed Death ahead by a kilometer.
--------------------------------------------------------
Coming up next post...the little 12-year-old "I think I can" boywho, out of kindness, cheerily ran me into the ground on Monte Sano during that 5K.
(to be continued....)
My foot pursuit that day began in the sterility ofa doctor's office, to the sounds of a white noise machine—undoubtedly so nobody could hear me false start—about two months prior. And false start I did. Over a week long period of time, as multiple tests came back, mydoc informed me that not only did I have high blood pressure, but I had also developed Type 2 diabetes. My award that day for successfully achieving diabetic status was a glucose monitor, strips and lancets. Oh yeah, and medication for the heart. "And oh, by the way," he said (these are never good from a doctor looking over test results), "Your cells are insulin resistant, and since you already exercise,you've either got touse massive amounts of cardio to get yourdiabetes under control, or we put you on pills for that too, and see where ittakes us. There is no cure, only control."
I thanked him...not sure why.
Not to be outdone, his starched up pretentious little snot nosed recent nursing school graduate student decided to throw her two dollars and change on the pile heaped over my head:
"And you could stand to lose five pounds."
"If I do, then I'm all better?"
"Well, no."
The white noise was the nicest thing I heard during thatvisit to myfuture mortician's best friends.
I had the urge to run away from people who were, it seemed,predicting my demise if I did nothing.Running away is doing something, right? I've weight trained and done mild cardio for years...exactly asmy Police Academy instructors taught as ameans of avoiding morticians back when I was 22 years old, about to be handed my first gun,badge, and bullet resistant vest (that's right, they just resist bullets, not stop 'em).I've had more than my share of foot pursuits under wire clothes lines—and into them—in neighborhoods where folks often preferred to see an officer leaving as opposed to running toward their doorsteps.I could handle without injury (okay, maybe minor injury like a twisted ankle or pulled muscle) bailing out of a patrol car cold and running someone down in amighty burst of foot speed. Butmy shins ached at the thought of reverting to running as a form of eluding death, avoiding my own capture by a shadowy figurewith a sickle.Running on pavement and even dirt had been agony duringthe Police Academy. By graduation day myshin splints were screaming forice packs just from the walk up three steps onto a stage so I could shake the Mayor's hand and receive my bandages…I mean badge.
Now at age 47, on a policeman's salary, the simple way outof the doctor's office was torun. I thought,"I've given my shins 25 years to heal. Maybe those splints won't come back."
Wrong.
My wife, Karen, God bless her, got me back into running shoes this past July just after the diagnoses. My buddies Shin and Splint came back of their own accord shortly thereafter. I soon felt myself heading for a big DNF (did not finish) in the game of life; diabetes and high blood pressure favored to win.
Life or death? Which one will chase me down first?
The split at what I hoped was at least my "half" in life showed Death ahead by a kilometer.
--------------------------------------------------------
Coming up next post...the little 12-year-old "I think I can" boywho, out of kindness, cheerily ran me into the ground on Monte Sano during that 5K.
(to be continued....)
