Running Diary: Running a Half Marathon with MS and a Not-Quite-Healed Broken Kneecap

It's 5 minutes to the beginning of the Livermore Half Marathon, and I'm near the start line with two major problems.  

One, I've lost my chewable energy tablets somewhere between the car and the coffee shop bathroom. I've retraced my steps twice and can't find them. I will run out of gas about mile 10 without some nutrition to get me through the whole 13.1.  But the race is about to start, so I just have to hope the volunteers will hand some out along the way.

My second problem is slightly more important.  Last week I reaggravated the knee I broke two years ago. I haven't run since then. Until yesterday, I couldn't even walk without a limp.

The smart thing would probably to sit this one out, to call it until next time.  But after breaking my knee in a nasty fall two years ago, this is the first time I've been able to try something like this.  I've been training for three months for this, my annual hometown race.  Also, I have MS.    

Multiple sclerosis is a disease where the body's immune system attacks its own nerves, potentially leading to paralysis and all kinds of other problems. There is no cure, but there are medications to slow down the unpredictable progression.  In short, there's no guarantee I'll ever get to try this again. Besides, I raised $2100 toward research for a cure for MS through people sponsoring me for this race. I can't let them down.

It's going to take a whole lot of pain to take this moment away from me. Even if I run out of energy at mile 11.   

Here's what happened:

7:29 a.m.:  Usually, races start a few minutes late.  The organizers double-check to make sure the course is clear. They play the national anthem.  They make some announcements. None of that happened here, and the emcee just started a ten-second countdown and it isn't even 7:30.  The good news is that my knee feels ok, at least when I walk around.  The bad news is that I was a little late to the party because I was looking for my energy tablets, so I had to hop over a barricade just to get into race.  Also, my GPS watch hasn't picked up a signal yet. It has exactly 10 seconds...

7:29:15: I have a signal just in time.  We're off.

7:32:  There's no immediate pain in my knee. I breathe a sigh of relief. But not too hard, because I'm going to need all the oxygen I can get.

7:34:  My first mile is filled with dodging slowpokes who for some reason wanted to start near the front of the race. I try not to waste energy running around people at the start of races, but in a couple instances people are almost walking from the start, so I have no choice.

7:38:  The forecast called for a small chance of rain, which creates a dilemma.  I usually have to run with sunglasses because MS causes me to go completely blind in my left eye when I get hot (historical note: before spinal taps, people suspected of having MS were thrown in hot tubs. If they went blind, they were diagnosed.  Having been through a spinal tap, I don't know why they ever went away from the hot tub method).

I notice my running-induced blindness less if I have sunglasses on, so I wear them regardless of the weather.  But they don't come with windshield wipers.

7:42: Sunglasses off.  It's lightly raining.

7:58: Somewhere about mile 3.5 the sunglasses go back on.  The sun is out, and suddenly bright.  My knee is holding up, and I'm feeling good.  I say a prayer of thanks.  It's been so long since I've been able to do this.

8:05: Usually one of the highlights of race day are the crazy signs spectators have.  Messages like "Worst Parade Ever" and "If Brittany can survive 2007, you can survive this" are among the highlights. I also fondly remember "Go Dan! Don't poop your pants!" from a prior year. I see one that says "I Bet You Thought You Were Signing Up for A Rum, not a Run."

8:17: I approach an aide station for some water at the 6 mile mark. I make eye contact with a volunteer, as is the protocol, and go to grab a drink mid-stride.  Unfortunately, the person in front of me decided to grab her water and just stop right in front of me. I collide into her, fairly hard.  She looks angry as though this was somehow my fault.  I collect myself and keep going and she continues to stand there and block the path.  It looks like maybe she knows a volunteer, and she picked a really bad spot for social hour.

8:33: Finally at mile 8 volunteers hand out an energy gel.  I take one, expecting to grab another at mile 10.  And no one stopped in front of me at this station.

8:41:  My time has been pretty good so far. I'm just about on pace to set a new personal record, but mile 9 is steep uphill climb that usually comes close to killing me.  I feel strong climbing it this time, but my time was not very good.  I need to get about 3 more energy gels at mile 10.

8:49:06: There's no gel at mile 10, just water and a sports drink.  I go to grab the latter, just as another runner decides to grab one.  He stops to drink it in the middle of the course.

8:49:08: I crash into him, spilling half my drink on his backside.  Why are people stopping on the course?????  Unless you're hurt, or think you're in last place, why would you stop in the middle of the race path?  What do people expect to happen when they suddenly stop directly in front of an aid station that others also need to get to? I apologized for running into both people I crashed into, but honestly, they both kinda deserved it.

8:57: I'm on to mile 11, and my watch reflects what I feel: I'm out of gas.  I'm not going to set any records this race, but at least my body is not going to break down.  Two years ago at this point, my left leg almost stopped working. This time, I'm just tired. This is progress, in a certain way, but I really wish I had some energy tablets.

9:04:  Race exhaustion creates a special type of incoherence.  At a certain point, the body is working so hard that the mind can no longer think of anything but survival.  I lose the ability to read signs in the crowd or to comprehend the music in my headphones.

I check the distance on my watch every few seconds counting down to the finish line. I just need to finish.  I have no idea, however, where the finish line actually will be. The races mile markers have either been missing or comically incorrect the first twelve miles. I hit what the race marked as "Mile 6" after 5.8 miles, but didn't hit "Mile 7" until 7.2.  Mile 8 was at 7.78.  There was no Mile 5 or Mile 11 sign at all.

9:12: There was also no Mile 13 sign. But at least there was also no one stopping to look at it for me to bump into.

9:14: I'm back in downtown Livermore. There's one more turn, and I'll be at the finish line, having completed my first race in two years.  I needed crutches, a cane, or a knee brace for 18 months after my fall.  My physical therapist told me MS might keep my muscles from ever rebounding enough to be able to fully walk again, much less run.  I wasn't sure this day would ever come.

9:16: There's a toddler at the last turn, offering high fives to runner before the home stretch.  I don't usually take any detours during races. 13.1 miles is long enough.  But I see him, and his enthusiasm moves me. Literally. I run over to slap his hand.

9:17: As I hit the home stretch, I see my wife and some friends standing near the finish line. I point up to the sky for my finish line picture. I'm so thankful.  I needed all the help I could get for this one, but I did it!

My official time was 1:47:55 seconds. That time was 30 seconds slower than my best ever, but roughly in the middle of the 8 races I've completed.  In other words, my time was right about normal for me.  After two years in exile, it was perfect.

28 months ago I was newly diagnosed with MS and in tears on the same running trail .  In my first run-post MS diagnosis, I was half blind and my legs wobbled underneath me in a way that felt terrifying.

"You can't stop me," I screamed into the wind, but I was crying because deep down, I wasn't sure I believed it. Still, I vowed that while MS might make me take some detours, it wouldn't keep me from moving forward.

Today, I met my promise. It took 34 physical therapy sessions, and way more time and leg workouts than I care to remember, but my detour finally ended.  I took another small one to high five a kid to celebrate the finish, but through it all, I kept going forward.

Even if the runner in front of me stopped directly in my way.