| T O P I C R E V I E W |
| Jan J. |
Posted - February 26 2013 : 11:04:36
NY Times
February 26, 2013
Running Hard at 66, and Dealing With the Consequences
By ALAN STARK
Situational irony is great fun to observe, unless you are the situation.
When Linda found me in the emergency department at Boulder Community Hospital in Colorado, she looked a little scared and then a little annoyed. The technician had gotten me out of my mud-covered running clothes and into one of those backless flannel gowns and a warm blanket. I looked a good deal less beat-up than when I had arrived.
Linda is my best friend and wife of 29 years. She feels free to express her opinions about me whenever it pleases her. She looked at me with those wonderful blue eyes and said, “Oh Sweetie, are you hurt?”
“Not bad, no worries.”
There was a pause, a quick survey to make sure I wasn’t lying before she said: “You’re an idiot. You are way too old to be trail running on ice and snow.”
“I’m feeling pretty good,” I said.
“You are 66-years-old.”
“And there is very little pain,” I said.
“What are we going to do with you?”
“We could start by not telling the entire E.D. how old I am.”
As if on cue, Trina, the trauma physician’s assistant, greeted us. A boomer with a blown-out knee was not something to get excited about, unless you are the boomer.
She asked the right questions.
“Yes, I’ve had some tendinitis in my left knee,” I said before asking, “Is this a common injury for guys my age?”
“Yup,” she said, “under 40, given the same fall, you would probably have ripped out the tendon below your knee.” She meant the patellar tendon and explained I had the misfortune of ripping out the quadriceps tendon above my knee. It was partly the way I had landed and partly the result of having beat the quadriceps tendon to death after decades of running.
Over 30,000 miles on various trails had strengthened many of my parts, but scar tissue from micro-tears and too many hits of anti-inflammatories over the decades had weakened the tendon, making it good and ready to rip when I fell.
She said recovery would probably be six to eight weeks after surgery with full use in six months: “Think more time than less, due to your age.”
Sigh.
In most towns, two months with no cardiovascular workouts would go unnoticed. Here in Boulder, it is considered a catastrophic illness. I’ve run the trails through these foothills since I got here in 1973. There will be a day when I can’t run them anymore, and that’s fine, I’ll be thankful to walk.
But certainly this was not the day.
Just about everyone is training for something in Boulder, where your job, family and politics are important and can carry a conversation for 15 minutes or so. But what we really want to talk about are split times on the last run, ride or swim; the quality of the snow at Brainard Lake; the new drive train for road bikes; or that Gary Neptune just sold his outdoor store.
Rather than age, the issue here is: “Are you out there pushing your body to get better at this activity? Are you enjoying yourself out there with friends? Are you laughing more than you are complaining?”
As for anyone who gets a little over-serious about their activity, there is always someone who is better at it than you, someone who will be happy to reel in you and your ego.
I was four miles out on a routine five-mile run, cresting the hill that leads down to Wonderland Lake, distracted by my usual cosmic thoughts. My right foot hit some ice while my left foot was still under me. In my time I’ve done any number of tumbles, and most struck me as funny and often slapstick. Going down on this one was different. I didn’t hear a pop, but that may have been because I was screaming so loud.
I lay there in the mud and ice for a couple minutes thinking less pleasant cosmic thoughts. When the pain had subsided some, I tried to standard put weight on the leg. It crumpled under me and I rolled another five feet downhill in a fusillade of bad words.
I had spent last fall training to become an outdoor emergency care technician and taken the National Ski Patrol course with a focus on snow sports trauma.
The irony wasn’t lost on me.
I reviewed the situation systematically, then did what any well-trained O.E.C. technician would do.
I called 911.
I told the operator my name, location, age and medical condition; that I needed a nonemergency ambulance; and I specified that they would need a litter to get me back up the hill.
Twenty minutes later, two medics, three firefighters and a parks ranger came over the hill and went to work.
I was a textbook case. It took the E.M.T. about 45 seconds to the do the primary assessment (airway, breathing, circulation, disability and wound exposure) and then, as he started on a secondary assessment, I stopped him.
“Guys, the only thing wrong with me,” I said, “is that I can’t put any weight on my left leg. No head or back injury, no blood, no significant medical history.” I told them my medications, that I was alert, aware and not behaving stupidly, except for having run downhill on an icy path.
They put me on what is called a scoop and with a fair amount of grunting, hauled me uphill to the ambulance.
The paramedic started going through the same medical checklist, but then I stopped him, explaining it wasn’t necessary.
He talked to me about running alone at my age near dark.
Sigh.
I didn’t want to hear it. Age wasn’t the issue. Objective danger (ice), possible exposure (hyperthermia), equipment failure (tendon) and bad luck were involved here.
I relaxed with the paramedic. We joked about all kinds of things, although I didn’t mention that my first real trauma call was me.
That was seven weeks ago. Last week, Michael, the surgeon, used the word perfect in evaluating my knee and progress. That’s a word I’m not used to hearing about anything I’ve done.
I can now hobble a fair distance around the house without my thigh-to-ankle brace, but I still use it most of the time. I should be back on my road bike by mid-May, maybe trail running by the end of June and probably patrolling next winter.
And what have I learned from this? At this age, life can change extraordinarily quickly. Your only choice is to deal with the situation and remember to laugh at the ironies.
Alan Stark is freelance writer and recovering book publisher who lives in Boulder, Colo.
Booming: Living Through the Middle Ages offers news and commentary about baby boomers, anchored by Michael Winerip. You can follow Booming via RSS here or visit nytimes.com/booming. You can reach us by e-mail at booming**nytimes.com.
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| ekamela |
Posted - February 27 2013 : 18:22:34
Great stuff Jan. Before I got to the end of this, I thought: "this guy oughta be a writer." Then I got my answer - no irony there. |
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