AUGUST 13, 2022 – (Cont.) Yesterday, after rain relented and the earth dried out, I embarked on my daily power-walk to “Little Italy” (next to “Little Switzerland”). For several blocks I thought I felt bone pain that I’d been told to expect from the five “sub-cu” injections I receive over the course of five days, through Tuesday. But after increasing the pace to keep up with my mental meanderings, I forgot about the pain—if it’d even been present to begin with. Lest I celebrate prematurely, however . . . the effect of the injections can be cumulative.
At the summit of pretend “Mt. Rosa” overlooking my imaginary “Milano,” I espied two overlapping pennies—both “heads up.” I took this as an auspicious sign; copper tea leaves to be read by a wizened soothsayer, whom I heard proclaim, “You, young man, will win your race!”
As I pocketed the change and negotiated my descent, I reflected on the fact that “the race is on” but only barely begun. Inevitably, I thought about the first mile of a running marathon.
At the start of the big race, everyone’s nervous, excited, even fearful—people have died running marathons, most notably, Pheidippides, messenger of victory and history’s first marathoner. After my first few races, I learned that mile-one can’t be run too slowly. Every marathoner, veteran or neophyte, has an “optimal” pace; that is, a precisely determinable mile-by-mile rate that will produce the runner’s best possible outcome. That pace can be extrapolated from one’s fastest times for shorter distances (one-, five-, 10-mile, etc.). Once you’ve calculated your optimal marathon clip, you must adhere to it with rigid discipline: for every second you run under that pace during the first half, you’ll sacrifice two seconds during the second half.
I learned this the hard way. I’d get swept up by the adrenaline wave that always crested over contestants packed into the starting area, especially those of us who, right or wrong, considered ourselves “competitive.” The gun would go off, and away we’d dash, like battle-ready Greek hoplites certain of victory, attacking weary, homesick, out-numbered Persians. At the one-mile mark, the official digital clock would flash a “fantastic” time, well below the training pace of most “hoplites.”
Thanks to less-than-fantastic times at my first few finish lines, however, I learned to resist the abundant enthusiasm that surrounded me during the early part of the race. In fact, in one of my better performances (2:43.23), I walked the first mile and a quarter, and turned the 26.2-mile marathon into a 25-mile race. That slightly shorter distance seemed less formidable—though the ideal marathon weather conditions (great for running; not so for spectating) helped as well.
Today I paced myself. My early alarm system worked. I enjoyed a leisurely breakfast, sang in the shower, and encountered no significant traffic on my 20-minute drive to the clinic. Street parking was easy, and I arrived in the waiting room with time to spare.
From my perspective, the U of MN cancer clinic is a combination of perfect clockwork and the the best care the world can offer—all with amazing heart. My nurse today revealed at the outset that she was of my vintage: “We were born in a good year,” she said with smiling eyes. She brought a ton of experience to the injection she administered . . . with perfection. We got to chatting, and by way of a string of connected dots, I learned that her father was a WW II veteran, who, at age 19, landed on Omaha Beach, then two days later, lost both legs when a mortar landed in his fox hole.
As I exited the clinic, I thought about the kind, graceful demeanor of that nurse who with skill and empathy has cared for so many fortunate patients. And I thought about her father, who, barely beyond the starting line of adulthood, had seen and suffered more awful stuff than I can imagine. Yet, in time, he found his pace and lived life to the fullest—and gave the world a most remarkable daughter who, with gentle kindness helps sick people climb out of their foxholes, also to live life abundantly. (Cont.)
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
