Running with the Devil, Part 2

Hot shoes hammered hotter asphalt. I was only on mile five of the half marathon, yet already feeling fatigued. In the last three months I had run an average of forty or more miles a week, so how was this possible? My calf injury was not bothering me, and I kept a slow, even pace to make sure of that. I was well rested, so that left only the heat.

The heat. Yes, that was it. I had a hunch a normal person would have recognized it immediately. After all, my shoes were beginning to melt and I constantly doused my head in ice water just to avoid heatstroke. I had gotten so used to training around 100 degrees that I no longer even consciously thought of the heat. Why, just yesterday my wife and I had cuddled under a blanket on the couch when it was 98 degrees. Yet Vegas had endured a horrible, bizarre cold snap this last several weeks. We had been plagued with unnatural, low 80s and, gasp, clouds!

I laughed aloud at the sun-blasted brown surrounding me. Of course! This was a full thirty degrees hotter than what I had gotten used to over the last month.

I began catching up to a runner ahead of me. The hill I had been slowly ascending for half a mile was getting steeper and he had slowed to nearly a walk. I was running stronger than ever, actually, because I had trained on some bruiser hills in the Red Rock Canyon. The poor man puffed and blew and wheezed, and his running stride was actually the same speed as a walk. That was a funny thing about running: sometimes we slow such that a speed walker could beat us, but we won't change up our gait and admit we are walking. Like everyone else, runners live in a constant state of denial.

As I approached, he picked up his pace to match mine. He was a skinny, twenty-something man with surprisingly tiny sunglasses on. They were little, round and blue a la John Lennon. His hat was so large I presumed he thought it would block the sun, but he had since learned the errors of his ways. I could easily see him squinting at me, then drooping with disappointment.

“Good job, marathoner,” I called to him. “Look, the water station is right up ahead.”

“I don't feel great. I've never run in heat like this before, and I'm dyin'.”

“Well, you know the old marathoner's mantra, 'pain is certain, suffering is optional.' Dying isn't in there anywhere.”

“When I heard you approaching, I thought you were the hot babe. I saw her behind earlier.”

“Man oh man, did I see her behind earlier, too. I'm about ready to pass out, but it's her ass that makes me want to cry. I'm not sure how that fits into the mantra, though.”

“I'm right behind you,” a feminine voice called out.

“Gotta slow down now!” the young man said, instantly abandoning me. “Good luck!”

Sure enough, I turned to see that the footsteps behind me for the last two miles were those of the demon temptress. I smiled sheepishly at her, but it likely never surfaced beyond my racing grimace. Before she could say another word, however, I was saved by the water station. We both thumped to a halt in the flimsy shade offered by a large tent.

Several barrels of ice water awaited, as did four volunteers. They snatched our bottles and filled them with sports drink. One volunteer, a girl of perhaps twelve, offered up a bowl of sliced oranges or pretzels. Salt tablets were offered, but I regretfully declined on behalf of my dear mother. Having read somewhere that America's processed foods have too much sodium, she had barred the seasoning from the house during my entire youth and made it clear that no child of hers would be allowed to consume such a sinful substance. No doubt it never occurred to her that a thirty-something athlete running in 110 degree heat for several hours may have different nutritional needs than a retired homemaker in 65 degree air conditioning. Funny how she screeched louder at salt than at my cigar smoking.

Fortunately, the demon temptress had to remove her hydration backpack again, which required more time to refill than my 20 ounce bottle. I was actually embarrassed at having been caught saying something naughty about her, though mostly because I had not been able to say it directly to her. Flirtations weren't fun when they were wistfully offered to the air. I couldn't tell if she was grimacing from the run or glaring at me, so I fled just to be safe. I rushed out into the 'safety' of being alone in the crippling sun.

To my surprise, the half way point was not where the final aid station was. Even as my water bottle was being filled with cool, clear loveliness, I watched with alarm at the runners departing further down the road. I had assumed we were somewhere around mile six, but in fact it was closer to merely mile five. While such a short distance may seem silly to fret over, the heartbreak of slashed expectations can be rough.

So onward I slogged. The hill dropped into a deep valley where the heat simmered and boiled even hotter. Just as my legs began to get used to the sweetness of downhill, a sudden upsweep of land made me struggle every step. I kept scanning the shifting distance for the turnaround, but could not find it. When I finally did arrive, I saw that it was merely a road cone with a small but clear sign printed upon it: ½ marathon turn around.

Waiting behind the cone was a photographer. He stood in the road beside his idling van, using a portable stand to snap pictures like crazy. I had no time to wonder how hot he was in that heavy photographer's jacket with the dozens of pockets because he was taking pictures of me. I had to suck in my gut, to stand up straighter, the whole ritual. I was surprised that he snapped off picture after picture, turning the camera this way and that as if with a model in a studio. Usually photographers snap one or two and quickly move on.

“You look great, baby!” he shouted. Only then did I realize the demon temptress was running right behind me again. Upon reflection, he had not taken a single photo of me, but entirely of her!

Together she and I spun around the cone and rushed off for the second half of the race. We were now running side by side. The pounding of our footsteps was the only sound for a while, and it was obvious that she was comfortable in silence. It was all but impossible for me to not talk when there was a waiting ear, and definitely impossible for me to not dig myself in deeper while trying to escape the hole I was already in.

“It's really not fair, you know,” I said to her as we panted and sweat. “I need to run a lot faster, but I just don't have it in me. And until I do, the photographer will only take pictures of you. My wife won't believe I actually did the race at all.”

She chuckled, but said nothing. As if on cue, a carload of young men and women on the way to the beach drove by in an SUV pulling a boat. They honked their horn and everyone inside, men and women alike, raucously shouted encouragement to her. What was I, chopped liver?

“Isn't it hot wearing that backpack out here?” I asked her as we slogged ever uphill. “Then again, I guess you have to wear a sports bra anyway.”

“Exactly,” she said. “It's not any hotter than that brace on your leg.”

Another truck drove by, this time with a DNR man. He stuck his head out the window and shouted, “Way to go, ranger!”

She waved to him, then poured water over her head with the wet cloth she carried with her. Occasionally she would slap the exposed parts of her body with the towel, clapping cool water onto her tanned skin. Here I was, miles out in the heat, watching a model spanking herself. Life truly was beautiful!

“Why do they call you ranger?” I asked. “I've heard a couple people say that.”

“I am a park ranger,” she replied. “I know them.”

“No kidding? That's gotta be a cool job!”

“Not exactly. I work on Lake Mead near Bullhead City, Arizona. It's always over 120 degrees in the summer. Say, I'm not forcing you off the road am I?”

“No, I prefer to run on the gravel shoulder. Less impact than concrete, you know?”

“Well, if I'm crowding you, just say so.”

Of course, she could crowd me all she wanted, but I didn't say that. We ground through the miles, chatting. I learned about being a park ranger, which I thought was fascinating, and she learned about being a writer, which she thought was mildly interesting. We had been pacing each other unknowingly for the first six and a half miles, why not enjoy each others' company on the return? Runners frequently made new friends on races, especially during those long, lonely middle miles of a full marathon. The extremes of this race made our little half marathon feel longer, though, and we were both grateful for conversation to take our minds off the heat.

And then came the snap. We were ascending a particularly long hill on mile eight and a half, when my calf gave out. I had been expecting it for mile after heated mile, but it mischievously chose to go out when I was finally flirting with the hot babe. Story of my life. I sensed, rather than felt or heard, a slight snap in my left leg. Instantly each footfall included a jabbing, icy jolt of pain.

“There it goes!” I called out in frustration. “Damn it!”

“You OK?” she asked, slowing a step.

“Fine, fine. I knew this injury would flare up, but had hoped if I kept this pace it would be OK. Guess not. Go kick some ass, ranger!”

She pushed on ahead, and I limped up the seemingly endless hill. I wanted to round up and say I reached mile nine before my injury, but it was actually barely eight and a half. Funny how that bothered me more than the injury itself. I had known it would happen, and all my frustration and disappointment had already been voiced a week ago when I lost the marathon before even starting. I found that I could still run, if very slowly and funny and limping. Well, of course I would keep going... I was still five miles from my car!

The next two miles I pushed onward, feeling the heat. Now that the worst had happened, I found myself dwelling on the negatives. It felt like work now, whereas before the pain had a note of adventure in it. I saw an ambulance rushing by at one point, and realized that yes, this is serious stuff. Then something nice happened... downhill. Somehow I began catching up to the demon temptress. Funny how I still didn't know her name, or even ask.

“You seem to be doing OK,” she called to me as I paced to within twenty feet of her. Her speech came in short quips. At this point, long sentences became tortuous. Though only twenty feet apart, I made no effort to bridge the gap. That would have been foolish on any number of levels. I noticed she was slightly limping herself.

“I am OK downhill,” I answered through my panting. “My soleus injury is very specific. It only hurts when I push off with my leg bent. Accelerating uphill is what snapped it. No more accelerating uphill for Bri Bri.”

A ranger's truck rushed past intently, and she frowned. She stared after it, observing in silence. She reminded me of a panther. She was slender and lithe and powerful... and patient. She observed everything without hurry, despite the pain and the heat. Further, as a ranger she was no doubt comfortable being alone for long periods of time. Her eyes squinted at a series of cones on the Lake Mead side of the road, where the parking lot for a boat ramp long since dried up and abandoned was marked with red flags.

“This is bad,” she said finally. “Setting up an air lift. Maybe a runner, maybe someone from the lake. Maybe a near drowning.”

“This too much alcohol? I hear most drowning are from that.”

“Sometimes,” she admitted. “Frequently the heat and the cold water. After basking in 110 degrees, a deep dive from a boat in the middle of the lake will kill you. The shock of the cold water shocks the system and it locks up. You just won't come up again. Happens a lot.”

Lovely. All I could think about right now was jumping in the lake to cool off, and now I hear this?

We both paused at the last water station only shortly. We knew there was only about three miles left and thought we would push it. I refilled my water bottle, of course, and downed three classes of 'room temperature' sports drink. We rushed off into the heat, both limping and trying not to let it bother us. The heat was becoming brutal, and within half a mile I had already dumped half of the my ice water onto my head. At our pace, we were still going to be out here for perhaps twenty five minutes. I began to get nervous as the sweat sprang out of my body and instantly evaporated. The demoness herself was in constant motion squeezing water onto her head and over her body.

We labored around a long curve and suddenly saw that oncoming traffic was stopped. A cluster of people hovered at the shoulder and park rangers swarmed over the scene. Oh so slowly we reached the point of commotion and saw what had happened. A runner was lying on the hot rocks beside the road, surrounded by three people administering an IV into his arm. He was being fanned by a concerned volunteer, and then we were past.

“He'll be fine,” she commented. “Help is everywhere and he is getting the fluids he needs directly. Don't worry for him.”

“I'm worried for me.”

My leg was throbbing and my entire body was stiffening. I realized that my limping was putting a strain on every other muscle in my body to compensate for my bum leg. My back and, strangely, my shoulders, were screaming with fatigue. I straightened my posture, not having realized I was slouching. Instantly I felt energy surge through me, as well as an icy lance of pain from my leg. I spent more and more effort wiping the sweat from my eyes and trying not to think of the heat. The long line of halted, idling cars added to the heat. Now not only the asphalt projected heat at us, but steaming metal automobiles. Their exhaust wafted over us, filling each gasping breath with toxicity. After a few hundred yards the line of cars ended when a park ranger ordered traffic to turn around.

We were within two miles of the finish now, and the scattered runners were beginning to converge. We passed many runners, many likely full marathoners who were running very, very slowly. One last monstrous hill rose before us, and I slowed my pace to barely moving. Each step of incline was a painful chore, and I urged the demon temptress onward with a few gritty words of encouragement. In fact, she slowed as well, and we both engaged in our own battles, mere feet yet entire worlds apart.

“We're almost done,” I struggled to say.

“Not yet. Not til it's over.”

“I meant almost done with the hill.”

“I know.”

She was right, of course. Finishing a long race was a series of smaller challenges overcome, but this hill was slowing everyone down. Then, a mere twenty yards ahead of us, a man collapsed. He fell directly into the road and lay crumpled on the pavement. I could almost hear his skin sizzling on the hot asphalt, but he did not move at all. Fortunately a park ranger was nearby directing traffic and rushed to the man's aid. Neither the temptress nor I said anything, barely able to speak between ragged, searing breaths.

'Pain is certain, suffering is optional', I thought. I think I'll add to the marathoner's mantra, 'Safe return doubtful.'