Remember the H

So, I have bronchitis, again. I had it after Hartford in 2011—it likely had taken root right before the race—and it lasted a little under two weeks.

Well, I noticed my first symptoms (wheezing) two weeks ago, and this stupid illness is still hanging on. It seems to be getting worse instead of better.

I haven’t run in a week. I lost my Foursquare mayorship at the pool (tragedy!), and I had to cancel two swim lessons I had lined up. I went to the gym to use the elliptical yesterday, and if I accelerated enough to sweat, I started coughing all over the machine.

On Monday, a coworker told me, “You sound horrible.” Yesterday, I noticed the coughing muscles in my back were getting sore. Today, Paul strongly encouraged me to go back to the doctor after I nearly coughed myself into unconsciousness.

The doctor gave me antibiotics, because apparently, if bronchitis lasts this long, it’s likely bacterial. These warnings made me feel really optimistic:

I’m trying not to lament the fitness I’m surely losing, and to look on the bright side:

I’m lucky that this happened when I’m not really training for anything. I’m lucky I didn’t sign up to run last Sunday’s Delaware Marathon “easy” with Lauren, because I’m not sure I could finish on these lungs. I’m lucky I bought the generic grocery-store cough syrup, because it knocks me out hard and tastes good enough that I’m kind of starting to enjoy it.

Seriously, though: Why has this happened to me twice in less than two years? Do I have feeble lungs that crumple in the face of adversity, or am I just hanging out in too many germ-infested environments? And more importantly, how can I make this never happen to me again?

On Friday, 1996 Olympic gold medalist Derrick Adkins just happened to be in the office. With his gold medal.

I deeply regret not putting it on and getting my photo taken wearing it.

Luckily, the razzle-dazzle of this real Olympic gold medal did not render me completely senseless, and I was able to take in some of the stories 1996 Olympic gold medalist Derrick Adkins shared with the group that gathered around him in the web cube.

Someone asked what it was like competing at the Olympic Games that were held, essentially, on his “home turf.” (He was living just outside Atlanta at the time.)

He said that the hardest part was staying relaxed. He needed to forget that his family and friends would be there, that his race would be nationally televised, that eternal athletic fame and glory (and a real Olympic gold medal!) were all riding on this one lap around the track. He needed to focus on getting from the start line to the finish line as quickly as possible.

Who knew that I, of not-quite-BQ-level talent, would have so much in common with an Olympic gold medalist?

I’ve gotten so tense during races that strangers running near me have noticed the ever-shrinking gap between my shoulders and my ears and urged me to relax. (See: Hartford.) I seem to have improved somewhat—the mantra, “Relax, you’ve been through this before,” works wonders—but I haven’t found the solution for the days and hours leading up to a race.

I tend to put so much pressure on myself, to build up a race so much in my mind, that I experience physical symptoms (like this one, among others) and arrive at the starting line in less-than-peak condition. Shorter races aren’t much of a problem, but marathons are.

Race morning rituals some runners love, like listening to pump-up jams, make me feel like barfing. And a whole lot of races feature said pump-up jams in their starting corrals, where I can’t help but hear them. Do I need to register for races with fewer than 150 runners or bring an iPod loaded with Enya to solve my problem? Please, say it ain’t so.

Has anyone out there struggled with this and found a solution? Meditation? Deep breathing? Calming music? I’ll try anything!

I’ve been doing a lot of “what if” thinking in the last few days. It’s not helpful. So I’m going to start off with what didn’t happen on Monday, and what did.

I didn’t qualify for or run the race. My mother and my boyfriend didn’t come to watch it. I didn’t have to wonder where they were or whether they were okay. I didn’t see the explosions, or the aftermath, in person.

I did hear the explosions from the press room, which was in a hotel a block or two away. (As my friend Peter Vigneron put it in his piece for Competitor.com, “The bombs sounded like bombs.”) I did spend the next four to five hours on lockdown there, with the local news coverage on the big screens showing the same horrifying footage over and over and over again.

I did cry in front of my coworkers. I did feel sick, scared, angry. I did fear for my own safety. I did long to be home, or, at the very least, not in Boston.

A few of my colleagues did see the explosions, or the aftermath, in person. Everyone I know who was in Boston did escape physically unscathed, aside from some postrace soreness in those who ran.

I did work for 15 hours on Monday and until mid-afternoon yesterday—with a short break to shower and cry some more—then I drove home in a rental car and got home around 11. I did come into work this morning, where we’re continuing to cover the running angle of this story.

So, that’s what happened. But what happens now?

Worrying about the future is as useless as considering the “what ifs.” But I can’t help it. How will this change marathoning? How will this change how I think about marathoning? How will this change how I think about life?

I’ve been too busy working to really process this. I’ve had a few good sobfests, but apparently not enough of them, as the tears keep coming back. I suspect, as this sinks in and begins to feel more real, it will only become harder to take. I worry about the people I know who were on Boylston, who did see, hear, and feel what happened firsthand.

I have a new respect for journalists who work in war zones—I never thought it would be an easy job, but since I’m this upset from hearing two too-far-away-to-hurt-me explosions, I can’t imagine living and working under those conditions daily. I jump every time the mail cart rumbles by, a door slams, a coworker starts talking a little too suddenly and too loud.

I’m so grateful to be able to be here, on the other side of this horrific event, in one piece. And I’m so grateful all my family, friends, and coworkers are here with me.

I got the best, longest hug of my life when I got home late last night. I had a wonderful, sunny lunchtime run with a coworker who was running down Boylston on the way to her 10th Boston finish when the bombs went off. And, as much as I’m tired of working, I’m thrilled to be here, knowing where I could have been if things had gone differently.

(Not an April Fools’ Day joke, despite today’s date.)

I get nervous before races. And unfortunately for me, nervous doesn’t just mean thinking, “Gee whiz, this race is going to be tough,” and experiencing general dread. Nervous means three, four, five trips to the porta-potty. The kind of trips where, if the one I choose is out of toilet paper, I’m going to have a really big problem. Get my drift?

This happens before races of all distances, and it’s been happening since high school. Track meets, where I’d sometimes compete in four different events, were extra fun.

So many reasons to hate track.

Besides being gross and inconvenient, my “runs” before my runs only became a real problem when I started doing marathons. An hour or two of running while severely dehydrated? No biggie. But three to four?

During my last marathon, my fingers were so swollen I couldn’t take off my ring (which is usually loose enough to fall off, if I’m gesturing wildly). After 18 miles or so, I started getting on-and-off charley horses in my feet and legs. Luckily, they were off often enough to allow me to finish, but I was doubting it for a while. Also: It only got up to about 55 degrees during this race.

I’d had plenty of fluids—including water, Gatorade, and Nuun—the day before and the morning of the race…I just pooped them all out during the hour we spent in the starting area. I drank water and took PowerBar gels on the course, but by that time, it was too late.

As fun as hyponatremia is to say, I’d rather not experience it.

I’ve tried Hammer Endurolyte tablets, and they didn’t seem to do much. (It was hot that day, and maybe I’d be dead without them. No way to know, though.) I feel like they take too much time to dissolve and get absorbed into my system.

Some of my high-school teammates used to swear by Pedialyte. (Because apparently, we all had this problem.) I thought it’d be gross, not to mention unnecessary for a race that was 5K or shorter.

But now, I see the company has come out with flavors other than cherry and grape. And Pedialyte is made to treat the very problem I have: uncontrollable diarrhea. (Yeah. I said it.)

Has anyone tried it? Tips, tricks, suggestions? Is it even possible for its glorious electrolytes to enter my bloodstream in the last 30 minutes before a race, which is when I’d have to drink it to have some chance of keeping it in my digestive system?