My motivation for running was strictly for the sake of shameless self-promotion. I was filled with self-pity, though I rarely let on to others the demons I had been dancing with for eight years. The Chemical Bank Corporate Challenge was my moment to shine. I was sure press would be there, and I would seek them out. “Look at me” I would tell them in the nicest, most politically correct way as possible. I would surround myself with friends and acquaintances to cheer me toward the finish. I’d show those able bodied spectators; I’d show everybody who didn’t have the gumption to run themselves, I’d show everybody! I‘d show them I was more than just a handicapped guy with a drinking problem.
So I trained for the run in appropriate fashion by getting hammered the night before. This is the first cardinal sin when one expects to do anything requiring extreme physical exertion. Granted, it wasn’t a marathon, but the last time I “ran” any distance was seventeen years earlier in high school.
There were many excuses I used for tying one on (I just loved Chinese food!); there were concerns about my mental and physical well being.
Would I get hurt? If so, how badly? Could I finish? Would I come in last? Oh Christ! I don’t want to come in last! Will anyone care that I’m doing this? Why should that matter?
“Bartender, may I have another please.”
The race wasn’t until 1:00 in the afternoon. That left me plenty of time to recover. By the time I was dropped off at the race site -didn’t have a license after my 2nd DWI infraction- in front of the Headquarters Plaza Hotel, I was in as fit a running condition as I was going to get.
I awkwardly ambled around amongst the crowd of runners, looking for someone from the media. When the Star-Ledger reporter covering the event didn’t approach me, I approached them. I told the reporter that I was running to inspire others, which was partly true. I didn’t include the little sidebar about wanting people to recognize me for what I’ve been able to do since my accident. I felt cheap after our conversation. I had an odd feeling in the pit of my stomach as I lined up at the rear of the pack with the other slower runners, and it wasn’t nausea from the prior evening’s festivities.
When the gun went off signaling the start of the run, my heart raced. What the hell have I gotten myself into? I completed the run without incident, aside from the hallucinations at a mile and a half. Though I stopped for water at every drinking station along the way, I still got a little dehydrated. That was what was behind my minor visual impairment. Running up hills was much easier than running down. As a matter of fact, I walked down all the hills along the course. As I passed Macy's leading down the home stretch, I sped up. I actually passed other runners on my way to the finish line. Had I not been so engrossed in the task at hand, I’m sure I could have sensed a tingle in my loins. Egged on by the cheers of friends and strangers alike, I crossed the finish line. The Star-Ledger reporter asked how I felt. I said “At least I didn’t finish last.” Afterward me and a couple of my buds went out for a couple of Buds. I don’t anticipate any type of celebration this Sunday. My head’s on straight for this run.
Since that day in Morristown in 1992, I have participated in many physical activities without fanfare. Accolades were no longer the reason. The pure unadulterated join of being able to participate at all was satisfaction enough. Couple that with how proud my son Cory was that I was able to do all I could do; well then, did I really need anything else? My motivation for such things had been inexorably changed once I became comfortable in my own skin; a process that took sixteen years from the date of my accident.
It has been a long row to hoe indeed, and still obstacles remain. These last couple of years since obtaining my master’s degree has been particularly hard on my psyche. Not debilitating by any means, but a struggle nonetheless. I tread water while trying to gain speaking engagements and get my book published… hell, to get any writing gig at all. The lectures are few and far between. There’s the occasional editing work, and I get to write my blog every week. But as Felix Unger once said, this kind of stuff “doesn’t feed the admirals cat,” So while I continue to submit resumes, articles, and queries, every now and again I need to do something that makes me feel nothing is impossible.
I go to the gym at Memorial Hospital West four days a week for the past two and a half years. It used to be six days a week, but I kept aggravating injuries old and new. My wife Helen works for the Memorial health care system. It made sense to join that facility. That and after six years of sitting on my ass in a classroom, I put on about forty-five pounds and got a little zaftig.
About a month ago, while amid another paying gig dry spell, I noticed a poster heralding The Tour De Broward, a fundraiser for a new Joe DiMaggio’s Children’s Hospital. Joe DiMaggio had given considerable time and money to the construction of the first of Memorial’s children only facility. Joe D has since passed, but his legacy lives on bigger and better than I’m sure he ever envisioned. The original kid’s hospital is located in Hollywood in the eastern part of Broward County. The new unit is slated to be built right across the street. The two will be connected by an over-the-street crosswalk. Events for Valentine’s Day included a 100K bike spin, a 50K bike spin, a 3K Family Walk, and a 5K certified Run.
Wow! I haven’t done a run in eighteen years. Can I still do it? Well, let’s worry about that later. Helen works for Memorial. I umpire for the Miracle League that’s affiliated with Joe DiMaggio’s. They ‘re going to be treated for cancer at the hospital. They could wind up just like me. I’m in a bit of a mental slump right now. This may be just the thing to snap me out of it. What a perfect cause to see if I can still do something like this. Ok, I’m in. Geez, I don’t even have the entry fee. Maybe Hanger will sponsor me. Maybe they’ll even give me a shirt to run in.
Hanger Prosthetics makes my artificial limbs. Jesse Mitrani is my prosthetist. A nicer guy you’ve never met. He was all for me attempting this run, under a couple of conditions. Yes, they would sponsor me, but Jesse wanted to know how much I planned on training. I told him not at all. I have to save myself for this kind of thing. It’s going to cause me physical trouble, how much will be determined. I certainly don’t want to waste the pain on training. I think his concern arose out of liability on Hanger’s part. If they didn’t advise me with my best interests at heart, they wouldn’t be doing their job. Jesse said they’d give me a shirt, but I’d have to obtain one and they’d reimburse me. I didn’t have the money for that either. Lastly, Jesse said he would contact Hanger’s public relations department, to try to get me some coverage. I said feel free, but that’s not the point. If anything comes of it great, if not, no harm, no foul.
Memorial’s PR department said there’d be all kinds of media interest, and maybe even a story written about me in the paper. I really don’t give a shit one way or the other. Just don’t blow smoke up my ass and tell me I’ve got a forest fire. People wanted to know how much money I’ve raised. I said this wasn’t about people giving me donations out of sympathy. Once I run, maybe they’ll donate just because I thought enough of the cause to run in the first place. You know, “If that guy can do that for the kid’s, giving a little money is the least we can do.” Hanger’s press release stated that I was running as an inspiration. Not true I told the nice young lady, and I’d appreciate it if she reworded the release to say I was running for the cause. That’s how it should be.
To shut Jesse up, two weeks ago I did 5K on the treadmill. It took me twelve days to recover. This Sunday ought to be a regular walk in the park, or run if you will. I’ll tell you how it went in next week’s blog.
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