. . . THE RACE IS ON!

AUGUST 12, 2022 – (Cont.) Blogger’s note: As threatened, the next number of posts will chronicle my “little adventure” into the land of treatment for multiple myeloma. May the reader excuse self-exemption from my self-imposed daily word limit. 

It’s the competitive marathoner’s worst nightmare: not getting to the starting line on time.

That nightmare happened to me years ago in the American Birkebeiner ski marathon. The previous year I’d skied to the finish with a time that now catapulted me to the second of 10 starting waves totaling 9,000 X-C skiers from around the world. In anticipation of that favorable position, I trained extra hard and was in prime shape by race day. Unfortunately, that was also the one year in the 35-year history of the event when transportation to the starting line was all hosed up. When I arrived at the loading area just outside of Hayward, Wisconsin, bedlam reigned. Where normally an orderly fleet of school buses would be lined up to ferry skiers to the starting area some 30 miles away, there stood only thousands of skiers; no buses. Nasty words and even physical altercations filled the scene as people competed for seats when a lone bus straggled into the lot. Those of us in the top two or three waves were furious.

Matters worsened. An hour later, the bus onto which I’d forced my way got stuck in a massive traffic jam at the entrance to Mt. Telemark, site of the race start. My heart sank when I checked my watch and saw that just five minutes remained before the start of my wave of the 50 km race. I instantly stripped my outer clothes, stuffed them into my race bag, handed the bag to the guy next to me (who, by that time, I’d ascertained was in the ninth wave), and said, “Here. Take my stuff and get it aboard the truck to the finish line.”

Clutching my skis and poles, I shoved my way to the front of the bus and tumbled out. In ski shoes I dashed more than a kilometer to the starting area. By the time I reached it, my wave had just left. Ducking under the ropes, I entered the now vacated second wave area. The nearly 1,000 skiers in the third wave looked like a massive pack of hungry, hunting dogs, straining at the leash to chase down the lone antelope.

I smacked my skis onto the snow, stepped into the bindings, and turned on the burners. Fueled by adrenaline I leaped forward, strapping on my pole grips as I put distance behind me—and in front of the “barking dogs.”

Going for broke, I caught second wave stragglers and went on to salvage my race.

*                      *                      *

Metaphorically, early this morning I re-enacted that starting line nightmare. My appointment for the “opening shot” was scheduled for 7:30. (In proper medical terms, the “shot” was a “subcutaneous injection of ‘growth factor’” in my stomach to stimulate the dispersal of stem cells into the bloodstream for easier harvesting later next week).

Our house is 20 minutes from the U of MN clinic, and last night I’d set the alarm for 6:00 to allow ample time to eat breakfast, take pre-“shot” meds for possible after-effect pain, render myself presentable, and head out the door. When I woke on my own and saw full daylight, I panicked. When I checked the time, I flew out of bed as if a fighter pilot ejecting from his aircraft after a direct hit. Before my chute opened I realized I’d mistakenly set the alarm for Saturday, not Friday.

I threw on clothes, grabbed a mask and bolted out the doorway . . . into a downpour—ironic, given the current drought. With the windshield wipers on “high,” I  hydroplaned to the U of MN clinic. When it rains, it pours—good luck. I found street parking and avoided what I call, the “Franz Kafka Memorial Parking Ramp,” the most poorly designed anything I’ve ever encountered. (In fact, it’s so bad it’s hilarious—unless you’re late.) Drenched, with my eyeglasses entirely fogged up from having re-enacted the Olympic 100-meter dash while fully masked, I arrived at my assigned “wave” area at precisely 7:29. This miraculous timing allowed a full minute to catch my breath before nurse Elaine appeared at exactly 7:30, chipper and ready to jab a six-inch needle into my flesh.

I jest. She didn’t “jab,” and the needle wasn’t half-a-foot long—at least I don’t think it was. (I’m too much of a wimp for my eyes to have wandered anywhere close to any of the countless needles/syringes involved thus far in my treatment.) Elaine was yet another top-flight member of the team. Smart as a tack and exuding confident, competent reassurance, she explained everything clearly, laughed at my dumb jokes, and put me at such ease I wondered if she was a hypnotist in disguise. The 20-second-long injection was painless, and I managed without incident, the post-injection, 15-minute-waiting period to monitor for possible adverse side effects. I thanked Elaine profusely, and with equal cheer, she wished me well.

The race is on! (Cont.)

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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson