And Then There Were Nine

Cardboard shoe boxes tower high the walls of our cramped entrance hallway of the apartment on East 23rd street. The ones I need are in a large box at the bottom of this wobbly pyramid. I hold the box above it against the wall, and using my thumb and the very tip of my pinky finger, pull the green box labelled Hoka out.

A voice rings out behind me, “You have ten pairs of shoes in the hallway. I think you need to get rid of a few.”

“But I need to rotate my shoes to protect my feet,” I say defensively to my wife Melissa.

“Ten pairs?”

I can’t see her face as I’m still pushing the boxes against the wall to prevent the pile from collapsing. That would be a mess so I better simply agree.

“Ok, I’ll throw one out.”  

When we first met, I was a bit resentful about how controlling she could be. But lately I have been reading of the need for spouses to simply be heard. It’s understandable, isn’t it? If you wipe your forehead and say “it’s hot today”, and the person you are talking to doesn’t echo the same emotion, and says something different like “look at that Great Dane!” you will probably feel a flash of irritation. Didn’t he hear me? Does he disagree?  What did I say wrong?

Still holding the stack of shoe boxes against the wall, I successfully slide it down to a safe landing. I put on the Hoka shoes with a maxi-protection extra thick stack. I feel three inches taller. So this is what it feels like to be 6 feet.

“Those shoes don’t match your running shorts,” she says, frowning.

This isn't negotiable. “It’s a 50 km race today. I need to wear these Hoka Speedgoat 5s to protect my knees.”

“Everyone we know is going to see you. The other runners will have matching outfits. I don’t want my husband to …”

I wave my hand dismissively. “Remember? The MRI showed my knee meniscus is partially torn. It's more important to protect that cushion in my knee than to look fashionable.”

“You are 38 years old. I don’t think it's a good idea for you to be running this much.”

“It keeps me healthy.”

“Call me the second you finish, to let me know you are ok.”

"Will do Lizzy."

After hearing my agreement, her face loosens. "I'll make you your favorite meal when you are done,” she says, and we give each other a quick hug before I leave.

Sitting in the F-Line train on the way to Central Park, immersed in the metal-against-metal screeching of the train making its way uptown, I think about why I spend so much time running.

Some people practice mindfulness, or meditation, or yoga. Those don’t work for me. Two seconds after I sit down to meditate or hold a yoga pose, I wonder why I am doing this and my mind races to people and places and plans.

They say in the modern world we overuse the planning part of our brain, and making us feel stressed. We only need to get a few things done each day, but that part of our brain that makes plans keeps churning and churning like a coffee grinder that has run out of beans. 

Better to “live in the moment” they say.

Running does that. One foot after the other. The need to vigilantly scan the New York City walkways for obstacles keeps me focused. On the positive side, people that I might feel threatening are now just scenery that goes past when I’m running. I’m invisible except to the other runners, who often give me a quick look over or a nod and a smile.

Races are friendly. People from every age, gender and ethnic group are here on the same mission. Ultra marathons attract a special sort of non-conformist. No one seems to have put any thought into matching their running shoes, shorts, and jerseys in the crowd that gathers to run the Hudson Valley 50 km.

I wish good luck to a few strangers, and then I see someone I know well.

“Good to see you here, Joe!” I say.

“Same here. I'm running this to get ready for the Hard Rock 100 in July."

I look down at the black sports tape covering his left knee.

“ACL tear,” he says, “The doctor told me to stop running, but I keep going.”

I nod. “A friend of mine recovered from that." A white lie, he recovered from a simple ankle sprain. I hide my schadenfreude that my meniscus injury seems more manageable than his ACL.

A horn blares, and then the run begins. Soon, we’re running over the George Washington bridge toward New Jersey. I see the greenery and the high cliffs created from the seismic shift that lifted New Jersey two hundred feet higher than the New York side of the Hudson River.

As we climb the steady incline of the bridge, Joe gains distance and steadily disappears amongst the swirl of runners ahead.

I concentrate on the rhythm of running. I try to maintain a steady distance with the woman in the pale yellow Lululemon shirt ahead of me while I let my thoughts float to other daydreams about seismic shifts, nature, and the meaning of life.

We've reached Palisades Park, the halfway point, and spread out string of runners does a large meandering circle through the park following the arrows taped up at every junction. From the heights above, we descend on a trail from Hawk's Nest to the Hudson River embankment. On one downward leap, we knee wobbles, and then I feel it bend like butter and pop out to the right side in a horrifically unnatural position. In the next instant, I’m rolling down the stairs. Over and over, uncontrollably.

Then the pain hits me. I scream. Laying on the ground, a few runners just go past without saying anything, but soon one of them stops and calls for help.

After a long wait, I'm being transported to an ambulance in a blur of pain, panic, and passing out. An EMT gives me a sedative and everything goes black.

An unknown period of time later, I awaken.

The lights in the room are bright. I smell the antiseptic sharpness of a hospital. Taking in my surroundings, the first thing I notice is how cold I am and that I’m wearing paper pajamas for some reason.

While I’m still taking processing what's going on exactly, a nurse walks in.

“Oh you’re awake? I’ll let them know,” she says, and then leaves the room.

Soon, a doctor appears, walking in together with my wife Melissa. They look at me with concern.

The doctor says, “Hi Jake. While you were in the emergency room, we took a few X-rays of your legs. It appears that low bone density, combined with all the running we’ve heard about from your wife, has weakened your knee joints and hip sockets.” 

He pulls out a laptop and shows me a colorful looking diagram. He moves a scroll bar and points at things I don’t recognize. I didn't realize x-rays are colorful these days.

“Looking at this slide, your fall has shattered your femur and right hip socket. We will do our best to put things back together. But currently there's a chance you will never run, or walk, again.”

“That can’t be true,” I say, my voice shaking. I’m gripped with a deep sense of panic.

“Our physio will teach you how to use a wheelchair, and in the meantime your wife Melissa can help push you.”

I look at Melissa.

“Great!” she says, smiling. “Now I can keep an eye on you every second.”