MY WORST EVER

The thing I like about worrying is that the worst worry you can think of never actually happens. It's like a lucky charm or a vaccine: Worry enough and you are protected and immune. I ask my patients all the time: "What's the worst that can happen?" They usually laugh as they tell me. They know how silly it sounds. They know that their worst nightmare will just never,ever happen.

Well, almost never happen.

This New York Marathon was absolutely my WORST. What I feared might happen (what I hoped to ward off by thinking about it the day before) actually occurred. That stupid spasm that I had in my left calf early Saturday morning just locked the muscle up tight. It ruined everything.

I did all that I could think of for it. I did the gastroc stretch, the soleus stretch, the achilles stretch, the stretch in my little rocking device. I used the stick to message it. I iced it. I applied heat. I used wet heat. I alternated heat and ice. I rested it. I walked on it. And yet, every time I touched it, it hurt. It was SO sensitive.

And so on Sunday I traveled to the Marathon start believing that I couldn't do the race. I didn't see how the calf could possibly hold up to a 26.2 mile race feeling the way that it did...sore, stiff and knotty. Now, marathons intimidate me in general. I go to them half expecting bad things to happen. But this was even worse. I knew in advance just what the bad thing was going to be.

History was not on my side. I have run the day after a spasm but the runs have been short, slow and uncomfortable. Things definitely felt unhopeful. But what could I do? I wasn't going to be a no show for the New York Marathon after months of preperation.

So Sunday morning I did all that I could do...I stretched for hours. I'd touch the muscle and, to my pleasure, it wasn't sore! Then I touched it again and it was. But not as sore as the day before. So the pain was either all gone or at least diminished. Either way it was an improvement.

Still, it was hard to be hopeful. The calf just didn't feel quite right. I'd jog a few steps. No pain, but still that feeling of things not being right. I'd stretch again and get a good feeling. Then I'd walk and feel something funny. It was all making me so anxious. I looked at my heart rate monitor, expecting to see a number through the roof. It was 60. Well, I guess my heart wasn't all jumpy but the rest of me was. I tried telling myself the worst wouldn't happen but I'd answer that it was just a matter of time.

The race began and I kept a long sleeve shirt tied around my waist. If the calf gave out immediately I wanted to have something to put on and keep me warm for the long walk across the Verazano Bridge to the nearest subway in Brooklyn. Well, it didn't pop but I was cautious as I ran up the bridge and especially cautious on the way down. Any increase in speed, I feared, would surely tear the muscle so I put on the brakes to resist the pull of gravity.

I made it to Brooklyn and felt confident enough to discard the extra shirt. There were now plenty of nearby subway stations in case I needed to evacuate the course. My calf held up as I strode up Fourth Avenue but I never felt comfortable, I never felt confident. Since any step could be the one on which the muscle pulled I felt apprehensive each time my foot struck the ground. Everything felt labored; nothing felt easy. I was slow to begin with and each mile split was slower than the one before. Nevertheless maintaining even my mediocre pace was difficult. My heart rate, in the mid 140's, seemed too high for the 9 minute plus pace that I was running.

I felt little twangs in both calves from time to time. Whenever I unintentionally sped up I forced myself to slow down. Soon my glute muscle and left hip area began to hurt. Other runners were going past me. It felt like such an effort just to continue. It was NO FUN at all!

And the rest of the run was just as miserable. Nothing improved. About the only positive I felt was a sense of surprise that I was able to carry on as far as I did. I negotiated the Pulaski Bridge as gingerly as I did the Verazano. By the time I reached the Queensboro my stride had severely shortened as the pressure in my glut and hip caused my groin to tighten. I felt it a matter of pride to run every step of the way across that bridge. Run? Well, let's just say I didn't walk.

I reached Manhattan and now every step sent pain through my calves. I was done. Only greater injury could come from continuing this forced march. I asked a cop to let me through a barrier so I could leave the course. "Do you need an ambulance?" he asked. "Just a bed," I responded.