The Mini-Marathon® is this Saturday, May 4. The weather forecast is chilly temperatures and rain. This is my account of why the Mini®—this will be my 15^th in a row—is important to me.  To paraphrase the title of The Ventures’ song, I walk—do not run—the 13.1 miles. Considering that in 1994, by the second of nine days in the hospital, I completely had lost use of my legs, doing those 13.1 miles is pretty good.

   I lay on the ice-covered asphalt of the crosswalk, staring at a car heading my direction. Adrenaline might have moved my mind more quickly than usual. I dismissed standing up and dodging the vehicle as I had gotten into this predicament because of the ice. If the same thing happened, I would be—the clinical, medical term is—smooshed. I could lie flat on the ground and let the car pass over me, but I was pretty sure my bulky winter coat would snag the underside of the car and I’d be rolled into a bloody pulp. I don’t know why or how I did what I did. I got up on my knees. The car had slowed. When the front of the vehicle reached me, I grabbed the top of the hood and rode the car into the intersection. My legs met little friction on ice. The car (finally) stopped. I let go and fell backward.

     An EMT in Sitzmark (no longer there) somehow got across the ice and to me in a flash. He said something like, "Buddy, lie still. We called 9-1-1 and an ambulance is on the way."

   I asked, "Could someone move that car?" The grill was above me and two feet back. If another car locked its brakes and rear-ended the vehicle that struck me, under the vehicle I would go. The car was moved. IPD was on the scene and an officer  directed traffic away.

   Someone asked if I needed a blanket. There are several "up" sides to MS. After all, if you are going to get a REALLY BAD diagnosis, there should be some sort of offset. With MS, I am impervious to cold, so I passed on the blanket. An officer asked if I wanted them to call my wife. I told him I would call her, but to please call my the office and tell them what had happened. I was afraid Sarah would freak out if she got this news second-hand.

   I was placed on a back-board, set on a guerny, and popped into the back of the ambo. More questions came: name, occupation (I said, "You’ll love this") and to what hospital I wanted to be taken. I asked about the prefix of the license plate of the car that hit me. This was under the old Indiana system of plates, when each county had a numerical prefix that reflected its place in the 92-county alphabetical order. The ambo driver said "29." That meant Hamilton County, and thus a reasonable inference the driver of the car was insured. I said, "Take me to St. Vinny’s."

   They strapped my head to the back board—and the rest of me, too. I was in the hospital for two or three hours, most of which were spent strapped to the board, lying in a hall, waiting to be seen. Finally, I was told I had experienced soft tissue trauma and could go home. I asked them to call a cab for me. I called Sarah, who was somewhat miffed. She had called the office several times and been stonewalled. I said, "I’m okay. I had a little accident. A guy hit me as I was walking across the street." She still freaked out, but at least she heard from me that I was okay.

   When I got home I was stiff as hell. I got a couple of ice packs out of the freezer and applied them to my back. The cats knew who I was and lay down next to me on the couch.

   I visited a chiropractor the next morning and began a three-month course of adjustments. I called a colleague to handle the personal-injury aspect of things. The claim was settled about a year-and-a-half later. Meanwhile, each week I made my fifty-dollar payment to the other hospital. At the end of the calendar year, between challenges to improper items billed (we should not need insurance companies charging us a lot of bucks to "protect" us from health care providers) and the weekly payments, the balance was down to a little over $9K. This was the end of the calendar year and the lovely people at the finance office would want to clear as many books as possible.

   The person who answered referred me to an oddly familiar voice, like that of the woman who had threatened me with shipment to Wishard, of her supervisor. The supervisor asked what I wanted. I said I could continue to pay $50 per week, per our well-established agreement; or I could pay one lump-sum payment of fifty cents on the dollar as the balance stood.

   "Will you have a cashier’s check if we send a person there to pick it up?" she asked.

   "Yes. Will that person be authorized to sign a release?"

   "And she’ll have a release for you to sign. She’ll be there in 30 minutes."

   The person arrived in 30 minutes. The cashier’s check and release were exchanged.

   By then I was walking about three miles each morning. I wanted to walk longer distances. And I had heard so many people use the Mini-Marathon® as a personal goal.

Tips for the Mini

   Here are a combination of memories of doing the Mini® and advice, based on those memories, of how to do it. Even today, the soles of my feet still are numb from the MS. The MS also has affected my ability to void my bladder. Others might view that as a problem. I say pish-posh. I have to use a catheter to void urine from its reservoir below my belt-line. I am able to use the handicapped stall at major sporting events—for a couple of reasons. First, I have a legitimate handicap. Second, it is not easy to use a catheter standing at a urinal.  Third, guys do not like to see another guy stick a long, plastic tube into that particular appendage. I put on a rubber glove, lube down the catheter, and start to thread it into the urethra—you know where that is—and most guys either scream and run, faint, or take on a look of depression. So if I am at a major league baseball game and the line in the can is long, I go to the handicap stall and say "Handicapped," and everyone allows me to the front. Only a couple of times have I had to provide explanation. In those instances, I quickly was allowed access to the stall.  

   I approached my first Mini® in ignorance. I knew I had to walk 13.1 miles, but I’d had no formal training and had talked to no one about how to do the course itself. Steve Rowe was a reserve deputy Lieutenant with the Marion County Sheriff’s Department. He told me a couple of days before that, if I ran into trouble, just to tell a deputy on the course to page him and I would be out of there.

   I did not anticipate any problems, but American soldiers who invaded Normandy had little idea what awaited them once the gates dropped on their landing craft in June, 1944, either. Then all these German bullets met them.

   All advice given in this, or any other column, is not given as a healthcare professional. I had more ethics than to go to medical school. But I do not have the formal training received by M.D.s, so check with your physician before the Mini®—and help to pay that doc’s monthly installment on the Lexus or whatever in his or her driveway. 

Before the start.

   I had heard the mantra: "carb up the night before." Really, eat what you feel like eating. You will need energy. The carb thing makes sense. Plus "Carb Day" is part of the month of May at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway®. So—go for spaghetti (but whole wheat or some other pasta with actual food value).

   You want to drink water the night before. Don’t over drink, as that can kill you. Also, I would advise against drinking a lot of beers the night before the Mini®. That makes the first mile or so tough, but once oxygen pumps through your body, you’re okay. (Not that I experienced doing the Mini® hungover. I never would have done something that silly. Right.)

   I have read that you should eat a breakfast of whole grains (carbs) about two hours before the start of the race. Also, time your consumption of water that morning. It is really inconvenient to stand ten back in line for a port-o-let only a couple of minutes before the start.

   You will be assigned a "stall" for the start. That means you have been seeded. The officials are serious about this and police it closely—up to the time when the ropes are lowered. If you register as a world-class distance runner with Olympic experience, I have no idea why you would be reading this blog. You will start up there at the starting line.

   For the rest of us, we are rather a long ways back from the starting line. We are so far back—remember, there are 35,000 ( think), of us registered this year. Given my gradually slowing times each year, I have started further back. One year (2003?) I was in stall K. Now I start in something like X-prime—the letters we used in trigonometry and advanced algebra. Last year, after the horn sounded, it took me about half an hour to get to the starting line.

   Get to the start at least half an hour before the scheduled time. In all likelihood, it will be chilly. Wear sweats that can be discarded easily. Find your stall. There will be big signs with the letter that is on your bib. Go there. Because I am going to state now...

A main dynamic of the Mini®.

   GET TO THE TRACK ASAP!

   Okay, you get there and it’s 48 degrees. You’re freezing. (Technically you’re not freezing. You would freeze if the temp was 32 degree Fahrenheit or less.) The people around you with experience in the race wear horribly cheap sweats. You think, "At least I won’t broil out there on the course."

   Don’t be silly. The longer the morning wears on, the more the sun (unless it rains, and it has not since I have participated in the Mini®; I don’t think even a supreme entity would screw with the Human family, although that might happen this year) beats down on the concrete and asphalt. Even a couple of degrees coming up off that pavement can wear a person down.

   The "stalls" are separated by ropes. About 20 minutes before the start of the race, the ropes are dropped. Take this opportunity to work your way as far toward the front as possible. Remember: the sooner you hit the track, the cooler the track will be.

   The Indianapolis Motor Speedway® is really neat. It has a lot of history. Where you will walk on it, it is comprised of asphalt and some concrete. Those materials absorb and radiate up heat from the sun. The heat is absorbed by your lower body. The track also has all those grandstands. Wind might be a valid concern for an Indy car traveling 220 or 230 mph, but for a walker in the Mini®, it does not exist. The walls, the grandstands—wind is blocked. That’s roughly 2 ½ miles you have to cover. It seems to take forever.

   So get to the start as quickly as possible. The sooner you start, the sooner you hit the track. The sooner you hit the track, the earlier the time. The earlier the time, the less heat has been absored by the surfaces.

Duck-walking to the start line.

   Sometimes the ceremony varies, but usually a guy sings three verses of "Moonlight on the Wabash" a/k/a "Back Home Again in Indiana, the Mayor announces the start, and the wheelchair athletes take off. Where you are starting, you will not see this. You will be shoulder-to-shoulder with people seeded as slow as you are. About five minutes later, the start for the other athletes sounds and—you are not moving. It takes a while for any effect to reach where you are sanding in your stall out there near Cumberland (just kidding).

   Once people around you start to move, take the opportunity to squirm between them. By now you (hopefully) have moved up a couple of stalls. You will reach a point, however, at which you no longer can advance you position.

   Look ahead. When you can see the archway of the start, you are close. The crowd of runners and walkers narrows to pass through the arch because inside that arch is electronic equipment that sets off the timing chip or whatever is being used. Once you are past the arch, the pace picks up.

   And you look to either side of the street and see clothes.

   Remember what I said about people wearing cheap sweats? They chuck those right at the start. You are moving at a decent pace now, but in the midst of a lot of traffic. You are in the first mile of the Mini®. And what is that ahead? The first of the garage bands you will hear on the course. Local musicians come out to entertain the walkers and runners. I heard four renditions of "Free Bird" one year. The music is not limited to rock and roll. You will hear country-western and even some Marilyn Manson-esque stuff. Cloggers also perform. But all that is to come.

   You pass the Indianapolis Zoo, turn right, and head up Riverside. You pass the first mile marker. You can tell it is the first-mile marker by the big numeral "1" on the sign. Also there is a digitized clock running. Don’t worry about that, sugar. That’s the time from the start of the race. The guys to whom that time is applicable already are leaving the track. You have only 12.1 miles to the finish line. The fun has just begun.