The agony of da feet

“We run, not only because we think it’s doing us good, but… because it helps us to do other things better”—Sir Roger Bannister CH CBE FRCP In childhood, we are told to walk before we run. I started running at age 36. There was no apparent reason to start running aside from the fact that in the early 80s, it was what people were doing for health and fitness and, Jim Fixx said it was good for you. (The classic obligate runner, Mr. Fixx died of a heart attack while running on a Vermont back road at age 52). My first pair of “New Balance” shoes opened up a whole “New” world. It was condensed, however, into a course of familiar Thornhill streets with flats and hills, ups and downs, and timed out at 60 minutes. Distance was never a factor, at least in those early days. The focus was on maintaining a steady pace, controlling breathing and watching for traffic, often unaccustomed to pedestrian interlopers. I scheduled the runs three to four times a week as permitted by my busy practice. In retrospect, I should have reversed those priorities. Running gave me breathing room. It calmed the storms that had a propensity for precipitous arrivals and sometimes, drawn out departures. I began to talk running with friends and colleagues. Everyone had their own agenda, routines, some solitary, some with a mate and the more serious, with a running club. When my wife decided to try running, we ran together, stride for stride, silently respectful of each other and the sidewalk imperfections. We learned to incentivize the pain and savour the endorphin rewards that followed. One morning in the Doctors’ Lounge, a radiology colleague was preaching the virtues of running. Ed’s lean body habitus was classic runner, the result of years pounding the pavement, disciplined training and a personality obsessed with a fitness endgame, at any cost. I entered into the discussion, admitting my engagement in said society but with considerably less religious fervour than him. He asked how often I was running, how far, how fast and was surprised when my response was relatively lacking in specifics. He invited me to join him a few weeks hence for a 10K fundraising run. The “Eaton’s Run” was one of the first runs in the GTA with a charity focus from proceeds. I began to train with purpose, this being my first-ever 10K. Early on a Sunday morning in May, I drove through a sleepy downtown Toronto. Parking was plentiful proximal to the starting area, adjacent to Toronto City Hall on Bay Street. The runners were arriving, their bibs already pinned to the front of their singlets and Ts. I located my friend Ed in the crush of the crowd. Standing with him, fully geared-up in colourful, tight-fitting Lycra, was our hospital CEO. I had never considered Mike a running enthusiast, but then again, he probably had the same opinion of me. Runners come in all shapes and sizes as would soon be apparent. We decided to run together, “Team York Finch,” unofficially. I followed their cues. Stretching was mandatory, every anatomical muscle group in sequence, in order to avoid cramping and inconvenient tears of vital ligaments and tendons. I noticed a series of numbers posted along the roadside from five through 12. These represented the expected speed per mile in minutes in order to allow the elite and more experienced runners to lead the pack. This race had 1,000 participants, and although the roads were blocked off for vehicular traffic, it could get very congested, especially at the start when time meant so much for so many. I followed my host and hospital exec to #8. When the starting gun went off, there were hundreds of runners in front, walking, not running, as there wasn’t sufficient space to stride. We crossed the start line 45 seconds after the gun and began our course down Bay St. to Lakeshore Blvd. Once the pack thinned out, we finally hit full stride, a wave of humanity flowing in concert, our reflections magnified in the glassed facades of the corporate edifices along the route. Caught up in the momentum of the moment, the course timer indicated that I had run a seven-minute first mile! This was a Chariots of Fire scene but without the beach and haunting theme music. I slowed my pace, waved my escorts on and settled into a more practical and endurable rhythm. We headed into the CNE grounds, circling around the century-old buildings and exited the Princes’ Gates. Then, east along Lakeshore to Bathurst St., where we turned north and confronted Toronto’s version of “Heartbreak Hill.” Nobody told me about this obstacle, probably for good reason. If you could crest the hill, Wellington St. was a long flat home stretch to the finish line. I hit the tape at 49:57. It would stand as my personal best time, all thanks to Ed and Mike and hundreds of total strangers. There would be many other 10Ks over the years that followed—Sunnybrook, Baycrest, The Zoo—but none would ever come close to that singular exhilarating debut experience. I decided to expand my running interest into a fundraising opportunity for York Finch Hospital. I presented a proposal for a 10K fundraising run to the hospital Foundation. After much discussion and negotiation, I teamed up with a community board member who was an avid runner and a police sergeant at the neighbourhood #31 Division. Jim and I were named co-race directors and began a six-month intensive planning and implementation program. I made dozens of cold calls seeking sponsorships and financial and product support. Recently opened, Canada’s Wonderland saw this as a great opportunity to expand their brand and agreed to become our major corporate sponsor. The only caveat was a naming opportunity and so, “The Wonder Run” became a reality. Local businesses and corporations lined up in overwhelming support. Adidas Canada was located just south of my office on Oakdale Rd. I dropped in one afternoon, introduced myself at reception, explained the intent of my call and was escorted into the office of the public relations manager. He was intrigued by my pitch and graciously offered products from their footwear and clothing lines as prizes. As always, there was a catch. The year was 1986. Adidas was the primary sponsor of a Jamaican Canadian sprinter who had taken two bronze medals in the 1984 Los Angeles Olympics. His name was Ben Johnson, and although his name would become infamous a few years later, he was the conditional “ask.” Ben was named the Honorary Race Starter. His presence swelled the ranks of our sanctioned event as we entered the competitive arena of fundraising running events. We attracted a diverse spectrum of runners from the exceptional elite to the weekend warriors. The course was conveniently centred around the campus of York University, avoiding much of the usual traffic issues often encountered in road races. The fact that my co-chair was a police officer gave us access to the force’s enthusiastic community services group and multiple trailers of crowd-control barriers. All those hundreds of hours of planning paid off. The event was a huge success and although Ben had yet to master his elocution and speech challenges, he was welcomed as a hometown hero, perhaps his most important “15 minutes of fame” for a long time to come. The Wonder Run would undergo change as do all things in order to improve. Apotex would assume the major sponsor role to follow and Jim and I would quietly retreat into the shadows, confident that we had started something that would bring people together for both fundraising and friend-raising, with the common goal of supporting our community hospital. I subsequently became a Foundation Board member and eventually co-chair. The running continued, but transitioned into something more accurately described as jogging. I think the only difference is how fast you run and how much you sweat. The competitive edge was replaced by a need to stay fit. There were other subtle reminders, a painful twinge from my progressive bunion deformities or protests from my lateral malleoli or tibial plateaus. Pounding pavement can make a lasting impression. And then, the morning after a violent snowstorm, January 3, 2003, I drove to a Chapters store to pick up a book for my holiday week. I exited my Ford Explorer and rounding the back of the vehicle, my boot broke through the snow-packed surface of the parking lot, finding a sheet of black ice beneath. The pratfall would have been comical to any observer had it not ended so traumatically. An undisplaced inter-trochanteric fracture of the left hip rendered me non-weight-bearing for six weeks. It also led to my first and only OMA disability insurance claim, an experience that emphasized the importance of attention to fine print qualifier details. I hate forms! It also introduced me to the medical-legal arena where I had previously been a professional opinion provider, not plaintiff. I would ultimately learn that in mediation, the goal of respective legal counsels is to stage overly dramatic and purposely misleading arguments, engage in all manner of verbal abuse, threaten effusively and at the end of the morning, go out for lunch together. And remember, the only winners in a lawsuit are the suits themselves. The fracture healed without complication thanks to the dedication and personalized nursing skills my wife brought to the office every day. She also brought me to the office every day as driving was out of the question. I have to admit, I’m not the best passenger, just ask my wife. In total, I missed one day’s work but was officially considered “partially disabled” for six weeks. When my reprieve came, I returned to work full-time, and my wife celebrated her release. Rehab was primarily self-directed and graduated. I began a regular walking program, strengthening exercises and daily stretches. Within a few months, there was no observable gait abnormality, leg length discrepancy or grimacing. The fracture was treated conservatively, without surgical intervention. The prognosis was for a complete functional recovery, but, the “independent” medical opinion that was provided to my lawyer stated, “ I see hardware in your future.” Thus far, I am fortunate to have avoided a titanium intervention. I walk 30+km a week and aggressively participate in the gruelling sports of golf and fly fishing and, I am happy to report that retirement is not the finish line. First, I learned to walk. Then, I started running at age 36. And now, I walk again.

The agony of da feet

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HOWARD GOLDSTEIN

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