running slow reaching there

Running Slow

A great deal has been written about athletes who come in the first 10 for a marathon .What about the pathetic stragglers who need every ounce of strength and determination to make it to the final mat?

3:45 for my first half marathon. Not too bad I thought. I finished way ahead of some people and since I already  knew that I was a slow runner it did not bother me too  much. After all, I was 58 and was terribly overweight. All I wanted to do was reach the finish line.

In the Hyderabad marathon two years later, I could see the finish line  in the distance – but we had to go another 500m around the stadium before we could actually cross the mat. Pure torture! I though that I would never make it.

As I run  more half’s my timing is becoming an embarrassment. How on earth was I supposed to improve my timing?

I was unable to train as per any schedule--- Hal Higdon, Macmillan etc. I have to run in a very restricted time  window. I have a choice of two routes—paddy fields, villages with cows, men with  sickles and iron rods ( like in the KVT) –or the highway with speeding vehicles! The sun comes up by 5:45. If I run in the paddy fields near my house in the dark, there are snakes. I cannot run on the highway because of trucks. I have to get to work by 8 am. In the evening the same problem occurs in reverse—I reach home by 6:30, and it is dark.

So no long runs, split times, fartleks, or tempos. No matter what I think I am doing, or try to do, I wind up just doing the same distance at the same steady pathetic pace of 17-18 minutes per mile.

Then one day I realized  that I finished the half marathon in the same time that it took fitter athletes to finish the full! That was why there was always a crowd around when I finished.  Some actually (in the Kaveri trail marathon) actually reached before me! True, they started a half hour before I did, but that is really not an excuse. It is after all double the distance.

It became positively embarrassing. The worst part was that I ran every day or thought I did.

One day one of my daughter’s friends said “We all really admire the way your mother signs up for half marathons persists and walks 21 km.

“Walks?” said my daughter, “She thinks she is sprinting!”

I subscribed to a website which helped to run half marathons. It had several days off (3 per week) 2 days of XT (I think that means  cross train) and one long run.

I was doing more  (3-4 ) miles a day when I trained on my own.  The more  followed the schedule the less I ran. I never made it for long runs. The only consistent feature was a feeling of relief for a rest day! I put on another 3 kilos and became slower than ever.

I have a friend, a thin  vegetarian who runs full marathons. “The only way,” he said is to lose weight. Eat just one meal a day. I stopped eating and I lost weight. Now I am fast. “

He was too. He ran a full marathon in 3 hours.

I ate oats for breakfast, had a dosai and 2 vegetables for lunch, I ate two fruits at 4 o’clock. I then went home by 6:30 and devoured everything I could get my hands on like a maniac. Another week of this and my weight went up another kilo.

This was not going to work.

I have self control in every field. I exercise regularly, I never miss a day of work n my clinic , nor do I miss my newspaper deadline.

Food—That is another story. There is absolutely no self control there!

Do speed drills advised a cousin. They were available on the internet. It involved running fast for 100 meters, then normal pace, running at your 10 k pace , running at 5 k pace. All  I know is that that all pace for me is the same. 5 k , 10 k, makes little difference. I run them all at  to 17 -18 minutes a mile!

I wrote desperately to the runner’s world forum. “please help! Cannot improve my pace.”

“Try getting on a treadmill and pacing yourself” .

I did. There was something different about the treadmill. My feet seem to move oddly. The pace worked out to 18:40 minutes a mile.

I wrote back to the forum.

“Dude cane the prompt reply, “I think your treadmill is broken. I walk faster than that !”

Now that he mentioned it, I do get overtaken by walkers when I am “sprinting along.”

Depressed and dejected, I kept reading the forums. No one seemed to have any practical applicable advice for what to do when legs don't move!

For XT I went back to swimming. I found that they had master’s meets in Chennai.

I signed up and found there were very few participants in 60-65 women.  Despite the paunch and a tendency to land flat in the water for the diving start I got 4 golds and 1 silver! (photo attached). In the individual medley (50X4)  I did not even have any competition!

Perhaps I should change sports?

Dr. Gita Mathai

The writer is a paediatrician with a family practice at Vellore.

If you have any questions on health issues please write to

yourhealthgm@yahoo.co.in

going for surgery

Going for Surgery

My husband had repeated episodes of discharge from his left ear.

“I have some sort of allergy” he announced “that is why the discharge is intermittent.”

I protested, “It has to come from some where, so go to an ENT surgeon. There has to be a reason. In children it is usually a hole in the ear drum.”

“That is in children. It is a different age group. I know how to look after my health.”

He is a professor of medicine and infectious diseases while I am only a paediatrician.

This went on for the next five years. Finally when he was due to retire, nagging from everyone drove him to the ENT surgeon.

“I cannot hear too well in my left ear. I think perhaps it is from listening to my wife for the last 45 years.”

The surgeon burst out laughing. “Even of that is the case we have to have a look.”

As he examined the ear, he announced, “Your ear canal is congenitally deformed, there is a hole in the ear drum and the infection has spread to the bone behind.”

My husband looked at him in horror. ”What are you planning?”

“Surgery”.

There seemed to be hundred reasons for postponing  surgery.

“I have to go to XX, YY, ZZ to conduct exams. My surgeon is travelling. My grandson is coming for the holidays.”

Finally I put my foot down.

“I am going to be 60 years old. Please do the surgery before that.”

The date was fixed and we packed to go to hospital.

“Why are you taking your gym clothes?” I asked.

“I want  to wear them for surgery.”

“You can’t “ I said they make you wear hospital pyjamas.”

He always prided himself on the fact that he worked in the institution 35years without being admitted into the hospital even once. He did not have a clue about nursing procedures. I, on the other hand was a veteran. Admissions for the delivery of two children, and later, as I grew older ,for tackling various glitches in my aging reproductive system.

“I am sure they won’t  ask ME to wear hospital pyjamas,“ he said.

The morning of the surgery, he attired himself in his latest running outfit and sat down on the bed.

He looked longingly at the cup of coffee I was drinking. ‘Get me a cup of coffee.”

“No,” I said, “you are supposed to be starving from midnight.”

“The emptying time for the stomach is one and a half hours. They will never know. The surgery is still two hours away.”

I had mental visions of him vomiting during anaesthesia and developing aspiration pneumonia.

“No.” I went and sat outside with my coffee.

The  nurse arrived with  a set of oversized hospital pyjamas. He disappeared into the bathroom to put them on. He reappeared with the pyjamas  on top of his gym clothes.

“No,” said the nurse, “you have to remove your clothes.”

He disappeared into the bathroom again. This time when he emerged, she said “you have to remove your innerwear also.”

One more long trip to the bathroom. They compromised and he kept his underpants on under the pyjamas. After the nurse left he said, “look at these awful over sized pyjamas.”

“Be grateful they have buttons in the front, in labour room and in the gynaecology wards we have backless gowns with nothing for our legs.”

“I don’t believe it.” He said.

 The surgery took longer than anticipated.

A junior doctor came out and said, “his neck is stiff, cannot be hyperextended and his mouth won’t open. The anaesthetist had a tough time intubating him. ” I listened in silence.

Once we reached the ward the nurse said “nothing by mouth till 3:30pm. After that clear liquids for another 3 hours.”

As  soon as she left he said, “get me a Pepsi.”

I was not sure that it falls in the category of  “clear liquids.”

Anyway I was too tired to argue.

General anaesthesia apparently produces a ravenous appetite. The Pepsi was followed by 600 ml of lime juice, two  coffees, a “kitcdi,” a hot and spicy chicken soup, a rava dosai and an apple.

The next morning  a junior doctor came to remove the ear dressing.

She repeated the litany about the stiff neck. “you have to remember this in case you have anaesthesia elsewhere”.

After she left, “What nonsense”, said my husband, “ I can move my neck and open my mouth. See.” He made some violent movements.

“I am sure you can, but don’t till you have the sutures removed.”

He got fully dressed. “Can we go now?” he asked the nurse.

“Well the chief has to come for grand rounds to see you  first.”

The nurse brought some tablets. “You have to take these.”

“Just leave them here I will take them later. “No,” said the nurse,” take them now!”

He sheepishly swallowed the pills.

 “I want to be dropped at the gym after discharge, I feel a lot less groggy now.”

I think he wanted to exercise his neck and jaw.

“I don’t think you can” I feebly protested.

“I had surgery to my ear, not my abdomen.”

There was no arguing with that.

The unit  finally came on grand rounds an hour later. “No head bath, no weight lifting and no jogging for a week.”

I sure am  glad they were so explicit!  Perhaps they overheard?

We headed silently home for a week of house arrest.

Dr. Gita Mathai

The writer is a paediatrician with a family practice at Vellore.

If you have any questions on health issues please write to

yourhealthgm@yahoo.co.in

Searching for a Chauffer

Searching for a chauffer

“Why do you need a full time chauffer?” asked my sister in law. “You drive, so does your husband and both your children.”

She neglected to mention that husband travels 20 days out of 30 and the two children “fled the nest” many years ago. I have elderly parents living with me , and they need to be taken for medical evaluations, to church and occasionally shopping. I work six days a week. The last thing I want to do once I am safely home is to set out  again in the traffic.

“Get  a contract driver whenever you want one. They are good, you have your car and they are less expensive than a permanent employee.” Words of sage advice.

I contacted an agent and the next time my parents wanted to go to Chennai I asked him to arrange a chauffer  to take them. An hour after they left Vellore I got a phone call from my mother. “Your father is driving. He can’t see or hear.”

“ I know that,” I replied, “that is why I arranged the driver.”

“The driver drove into a truck. Luckily nothing was wrong with the car. The bonnet is dented. So he asked the driver to get out and he is driving.”
I arranged for another driver to pick them up and bring them back. A week later they had to go again.

I got another call. “Your father has sent the driver back----“

“Why?” I asked.

“He refused to wear the seat belt even though your father asked him to”.

Things went smoothly for the next two trips.

My mother succumbed to cancer and my father made weekly trips on his own. The substitute drivers worked well for a while. There was no one available for one trip and we hired a taxi.

“I have been on the road for 4 hours!” My father was irate.

“Why? Have you not reached Chennai?”

“We were rear-ended and so we are waiting on the road.”

“But ---, Okay “ I said “give the phone to the driver.”

Once the driver had the phone I said, “please go to Chennai.”

“I can’t” he explained , “I have to wait for my boss.”

Once that problem was sorted, the owner came and money changed hands,  he turned to my father, “I have not eaten any lunch. I am hungry. Would you like to eat too?”

“No “ said my father decisively, looking askance  at the fly infested roadside eatery with lip smacking oily delicacies.

By the time the driver eating finished it was 7 pm.

My father said, “There is no point in going forward, let us go back to Vellore.”

Once he was safely home, father refused to pay the taxi. The owner came to my clinic the next day and after a lot of heated argument (The taxi owner claimed he was rear ended. I claimed I was not responsible and my father’s trip to Chennai had been sabotaged) I paid half the bill.

We were really happy to get Divakar (names changed). He was tall and thin, very polite and soft spoken. He folded his hands deferentially when he addressed my father. He handed over toll tickets and other bills neatly stapled together arranged by date. He was an “independent operator” and willing to come whenever we asked. My problems were solved!

I called him on Tuesday. “Can you come on Thursday?”

“Mmm,” he said.

The answer sounded vague so I called again on Wednesday. The  phone rang a long time. Finally a strange man answered. “I am Divakar’s brother. He committed suicide last night.

I never understood why-- though I found out how—he had hung himself.

We, as a family are back to square one. I have placed an advertisement in the local paper. Chauffer’s are a strange  breed!

Dr. Gita Mathai

The writer is a paediatrician with a family practice at Vellore.

If you have any questions on health issues please write to

yourhealthgm@yahoo.co.in