Murray Marathon

I just walked 5km today, again with no problems, and even jogged the last 100 metres to see how it felt.  I'm seriously thinking of jogging a few kilometres tomorrow, ever ready to stop if anything feels amiss.

In years gone by, when I couldn't run because of injury, I often tackled other endurance sports.  Browsing through some old magazines, I found this article I wrote for the Victorian Marathon Club Newsletter published in June 1985, about my first attempt at the Red Cross Murray Marathon (now run by the YMCA).

MISERABLE MURRAY MARATHONING

The start of a recent Murray Marathon.

Following my third left Achilles tendon operation in April 1984, I found myself under doctor’s orders to do little or no running for six months, the first two of which were to be spent on crutches.  After these two months, I abandoned the crutches for a bicycle, and after one more month, combined the cycling with a little jogging.  The combination didn't work and I found myself with a stress fracture in my left foot and orders to stay off my foot for six weeks.  So it was off to the Richmond pool for a mile of slow freestyle each morning - terribly boring.

After the required rest period passed I began jogging, but aware of the Byrnes’ penchant for sometimes slightly overdoing things, began to look for some other form of exercise to combine it with.  Then, brainwave (!), I would start canoeing and enter the Red Cross Murray River Canoe Marathon, a long held ambition of mine.  Inquiries revealed that entries for the five-day, 404km event from Yarrawonga to Swan Hill closed at the end of November, giving me a month to decide whether I could do it and a further month after that to sharpen up.

Competitors in a recent Murray Marathon.

By following up personal contacts I borrowed an old white-water kayak (stable, slow, difficult to steer) and entered my first race, a 20 miler, a few days later.  I never discovered where I came but I didn't fall out!  Soon after, Phil Hamer, an ex- Box Hill marathoner, lent me a touring kayak (TK1, unstable, faster, easier to steer) and I plunged into daily training.

Two weeks later I strained some ligaments in my upper back quite badly and had to give away completely all paddling and running for two weeks - I even had difficulty walking.  My illusions of being competitive with the best rapidly faded and it looked unlikely that I would be able to participate at all.  However, frequent physiotherapy got me back on the water and road in time for four more weeks training.  I should admit to falling out of the kayak into the lovely Yarra more than once in that time.

Competitors in a recent Murray Marathon.

Barb and two of her girlfriends agreed to be my land crew (together with one of their two-year old daughters) and we arrived in Yarrawonga ready and rarin' to go at Lunchtime on Boxing Day.  The remainder of the day was spent registering, checking equipment and some practice paddling.  After watching a few of the novices fall out in front of the assembled crowds, I refrained from the latter.  Equipment was in large part dictated by the hot sunny weather and comprised sunglasses, Arab-like headdress, pyjama pants, long-sleeved top and chamois gloves.  Into the kayak went two 2-litre drink containers from which long plastic tubes were connected by safety pins high on my chest so that drinks could be taken without stopping paddling, a mandatory life jacket (not worn) and a container of jelly beans.  My seat had two layers of foam rubber as well as a sheepskin cover.

Day 1 dawned bright and sunny and I arrived at the start with minutes to spare after watching some of the earlier, slower classes get under way.  There were 500 paddlers in 300 canoes, 69 of which were in my class - the Men's Open TK1.  Water turbulence caused by the frenetic early paddling was my biggest problem as the starting gun boomed and I only just avoided tipping out whilst dodging a capsized competitor.
The key to marathon paddling is 'wash-riding', i.e. sitting right on the tail (only inches away) of another competitor and effectively surfing on his wake.  This technique reduces the paddling effort required by about 10% but takes careful concentration and occasional sprints as the leader (who, not surprisingly, sometimes objects to giving people free rides) surges to get away.  I resolved to spend as much time as possible wash-riding and every time a TK1 passed me I would detach myself from one kayak and attach myself to the new one.  By paddling hard and wash-riding I found myself well-placed after 60km when some of the short-comings of my paddling technique began to manifest themselves in my right wrist, which swelled up, turned red and blue and became extremely painful - tenosynovitis.  I struggled on for the last 32km, finishing 14th for the day.

Day 2 was even longer, 96km, and soon after the start I damaged the deltoid muscle in my right shoulder and was reduced to virtually one-armed paddling.  Each day's paddling was divided into four or five checkpoints about 2 hours apart (with a medical post half-way between each).  Just prior to the first of these, five TK2’s (two men) swept past me creating waves which my weakened condition couldn’t cope with and I fell out much to my embarrassment in front of the assembled hundreds.  The day continued to deteriorate.  I felt I had reached the low point of my life - limping from medical post to medical post, administering ice packs, receiving massages, scoffing copious Aspros, falling out and generally wishing I was dead.  Only the embarrassment of sending my caring land crew back to Melbourne after 1½ days prevented my withdrawal.  After 10 hours I finished - 54th this time - dreading the next three days.

Day 3 is a bit blurred in my memory though I do remember falling out once for no particular reason in front of a group of fishermen.  The intensive medical treatment continued, and as I grew gradually used to my disabilities, my average speed improved.  Withdrawing, though pleasant to contemplate, was not an option since ex- Club member Mike Hall and his family and Ray & Marilyn Wilson were expected in Echuca, the stage finish, to see the spectacle.  I was 37th for the day.

Day 4 began with some optimism and I actually chased a few canoes to wash-ride.  The optimism was misplaced.  I strained the ligaments in my back again after four hours and limped across the line 24th for the day.  It was only the conviction of the doctors that none of my injuries would lead to permanent disabilities if I soldiered on that kept me going.

Competing in my second Murray Marathon
(possibly 1986).

I set out on Day 5, the final day, intent only on survival, slowly paddling down the river until, 20km from the finish, the old competitive spirit surfaced again.  In the distance in front of me, I spied another TK1 and set out in pursuit.  Unknown to me, he in turn was pursuing another TK1.  Two hours later, the three of us were together - exhausted- and straining for the finish 3km away.  The last 200m was a mad sprint (I nearly fell out twice) with me taking the silver medal in our little trio.  After 37 hours of paddling I came 32nd in my class and was a physical wreck, unable to even lift a toothbrush with my right arm.  Two and a half weeks passed before I would jog again.  The finish of the race was followed by a presentation and huge New Year's Eve in the Swan Hill Showgrounds.

The Red Cross organisation was superb.  In addition to the medical posts a large medical centre operated at each campsite until 10pm at night and from 5 .30am each morning where queues could be found for massages, physios, doctors and repairs to hands, bums, wrists and miscellaneous.  On the fourth night the team of about 12 masseurs massaged over 400 paddlers.  Including land crews and officials, the camp totalled near 3000 people, yet the special teams of volunteer marshals wearing colour-coded jackets ensured that everything worked smoothly and no-one got lost driving between check points.

To ensure no paddlers missed the start each day (the slowest left first at 7 .00am) the organisers kindly drove a loudspeaker van around the campsite at 5:00am playing 'Morning Has Broken' and 'Always Look on the Bright Side of Life to the accompaniment of unprintable shouts and comments from roused paddlers and land crews.

No canoeist could complete the course without the aid of a land crew and I owe a great debt to mine.  The girls nursed me through each day, literally lifting me out of the canoe at check points, filling drink bottles, administering 2-3 Aspros each time and a couple of handfuls of jelly beans, massaging shoulders, offering words of encouragement to unreceptive ears and spending long hours driving and waiting in the hot sun.  Even after they had lifted my disabled body from the canoe for the last time each day they still had to put up the tents and prepare the meals whilst I lay down or sought medical treatment.  I can't say it was a pleasant experience but it was one not to be missed and I will be back - better prepared and more competitive - in a few years time.  Even the land crew said they'd come back though Barb thought it might be easier to be a paddler next time.

Walking and pondering

The backlots of McMasters Beach on this morning's walk.

I walked about 10km this morning in misty, drizzly, and almost autumnal weather along some less-travelled roads and trails around nearby McMasters Beach.  Walking gives more time to look at your surroundings, and I've enjoyed a closer examination of the forests and properties that I often pass more cursorily on the run.  It's all relative, of course, with walking better than running, and running better than biking, if you want to absorb your environment.  All are better than driving.

The gravestone of Allan McMaster, the first European
settler in the area named after him.

Another advantage of walking, for me at least, is that it is the best time for thinking.  I'm a stroller rather than a power walker, and the gentle perambulation seems to stimulate my analytical brain cells.  As I walked this morning, experiencing no breathlessness or heart palpitations, I wondered about the chances that my heart problems were behind me.  If not, how would the return of the Atrial Flutter (AFl) be triggered?  By running too hard?  And if it was triggered, would it suddenly be as debilitating as it was before the Cardioversion, or would the onset be slower?  What were the chances of reversion, and what were the risk factors?  Wouldn't the cells through which my heart was passing the errant electrical pulses still be there, just a dormant pathway waiting to be reactivated by stress or some other trigger?

Umbrellas were optional on a drizzly morning walk.

There was lots to think about, inconclusively, and I returned home to do some more Googling.  Nothing I could find gave me more certainty, but there were clues.  One study in particular, of men a similar age to me, found that 55% had recurrent AFl within six months of their Cardioversions.  Underlying heart disease, previous episodes of AFl, and enlarged left atriums all seemed to be statistically significant factors in those who reverted.  I'm not conscious of previous AFl events, and my cardiologist found no evidence of heart disease, but he did find "mild Left Atrial dilatation".

Cockrone Lagoon on an autumnal morning.

Other studies have found enlarged left atrial size to be more common in long-term endurance athletes, than others of a similar demographic, and that this seemed to be associated with great incidence of Atrial Fibrillation (AF) and AFl.  So, it seems reasonable to assume I remain at significant risk of reversion.  The great unknown for me, though, is whether the enlarged left atrium was the key factor in the development of my AFl, or was it the Pulmonary Embolism (PE) placing undue pressure on the heart's function that was the trigger.  Although I'm probably stuck with the enlarged left atrium, the PE should be gone soon, if not already.  Does that mean there's a good chance I won't have the problem again?  Probably not, but only time will tell, although there will never be a point at which I can say there is no further risk.

The Great North Walk

A track junction on the Great North Walk.

Yesterday's Terrigal Trotters trail run was along a section of the Great North Walk (GNW), and much of today has been spent working on applications seeking approval from various authorities for the GNW100s trail race in September, for which I am Race Director.

It's one of the wonders of life, that activities or places you had little or nothing to do with for most of your life, suddenly play a big part.  It has often happened to me that places visited for races or sightseeing many years ago, unexpectedly became a big part of my life at a future date.  I had never heard of the GNW before moving to the Central Coast ten years ago, and now I'm running on it frequently (when I can run), organising trail runs on it for the Trotters, and annually directing one of Australia's biggest ultra-distance races along a large section of it.  "GNW" has become one of the most frequently used acronyms in my life.

Part of the Great North Walk in the northern part of
the Watagan Mountains.

The GNW was an Australian Bicentennial (1988) project, building on the visionary idea of a couple of bushwalkers to develop a hiking route between New South Wales' two largest cities, Sydney and Newcastle.  It stretches 250km and cobbles together existing roads and trails, along with some new walking track, and predominantly travels through forested mountains and quiet rural valleys to the west of the more settled coast.  There are camping areas and small villages along the way, and it is estimated more than 40,000 people use it each year in some capacity.  Many of them are trail runners.

The section I have come to know very well is the 175 kilometres used for the GNW100s, the trail race I direct, which stretches from Lake Macquarie in the north to Broken Bay in the south.  Apart from lovely stretches of dry eucalypt forest, there are deep gorges of stygian rainforest, caves, waterfalls, sandstone plateaus, rocky bluffs and exceptional views.  The quiet, and seemingly isolated, rural valleys of Congewai, Watagan Creek, Yarramalong and Ourimbah Creek add another dimension to a varied and interesting journey.

Falls on Kariong Creek on the Great North Walk.

The guides suggest that bushwalkers allocate 12-14 days for the end-to-end hike, while friends Meredith and Jess (elite ultrarunners and past podium finishers in the GNW100s) have run the whole 250km in 54 hours and 52 minutes.  The record for the 175km GNW100s is an astonishing 19 hours and 27 minutes, set by Brendan Davies, another friend who was 2012 Australian Ultra-Runner of the Year.

I always look forward to the trail runs, and occasional hikes or mountain bike rides, along the GNW, but also enjoy just driving around the forest roads and fire-trails and visiting remote locations, as happens every year preparing for the GNW100s.  It's easy to forget the Sydney/Central Coast/Newcastle metropolis is often just a few kilometres away from the peaceful forests and birdsong.

I walked 5km today, including a few hills that gave me no trouble.  My pulse remains regular and I'm beginning to keenly anticipate a resumption of running at the end of the week.

Gender differences

The Trotters assembled in Yarramalong before running the
28km to Somersby.

In a perfect world, today's Terrigal Trotters trail run from Yarramalong to Somersby would have been my last hit out before the Six Foot Track 45km trail race in two weeks time, where I had given myself some chance of breaking the 60+ age group record.  Alas, it's not a perfect world, but I still enjoyed following my club-mates during their run.

I had time to walk into a few locations and take photos, so racked up a couple of kilometres on a very humid and occasionally showery day.  Some of the walking involved significant climbs and there was no recurrence of my heart arrhythmia, giving me more confidence that last Monday's DC Cardioversion is doing the job.  Running in the next Trotters' trail run in five weeks time, even if slowly, may even be a possibility.

The runners approach the top of
Bumble Hill.

About fifty runners turned out today, and for the first time in fifteen or so of these runs, a female was the first person home.  It wasn't a race as such, but most of the runners try hard, and Melissa not only finished first, but also looked the freshest.  She is an up and coming distance runner, and already one of Australia's best adventure racers.

Her club-mates were pleased, but maybe not surprised, to see her do so well, and the run got me thinking about the differences I have observed between the genders in the way they train and race.  I'm generalising - it's more shades of grey than sharp contrast - and I am not suggesting Melissa is an exemplar.

Melissa nears the finish in Somersby.

Firstly, men tend towards overconfidence, while women seem often to lack belief in their running ability.  It's not uncommon to see men enter events for which they are under-prepared, believing that everything will work out, and finding otherwise.  On the other hand, females tend to underestimate their capabilities, and this perspective leads to more methodical and cautious preparation and planning for their big events.  I don't think it's fear of failure, more that they want to give themselves every chance of success by preparing properly.

The same gender characteristics also show up in races.  Males frequently start too fast, with visions of glory, or through fear of being left behind, or both, while females tend to start more conservatively, mindful of the distance ahead, and seem better at maintaining a steady pace and sticking to their race plans.

These differences may account for at least part of the observed convergence between female and male performances in races as the distances get longer.

Derek Clayton

Derek Clayton, running with Japan's Seiichiro
Sasaki, in the 1967 Fukuoka Marathon which
he won in a world record time of 2:09.36.4.

Along with great Australian athletes such as Ron Clarke, Herb Elliott and John Landy who inspired me to start running and awed me with their achievements, was the perhaps lesser-known Derek Clayton.

I was still living in London, and running school cross-country races as a sixteen year-old when his name hit the sporting headlines as the first person to run under 2:10 for a marathon when he ran 2:09:36.4 in the 1967 Fukuoka Marathon in Japan.  This wasn't long after Ron Clarke had blazed a trail across the world with a series of phenomenal world records on the track (see post titled Ron Clarke) and it seemed to me that Australians must have some kind of genetic predisposition to long distance running.

Two years later, when I was at university in Melbourne, his home town, and getting more obsessed with running, Derek Clayton again broke the world record.  This time it was in Antwerp, and his time of 2:08:33.6, stood as the world's best time for twelve years, until bettered by Rob De Castella.  By this time I was regularly competing in the Victorian Amateur Athletics Association (VAAA) winter and summer events and would have competed in a number of events against Clayton, though I don't specifically remember ever meeting him.  I do have a vague recollection of passing him and Ron Clarke, speeding in the opposite direction, when I was out on a training run in Melbourne's eastern suburbs one time in those years, and it may have been more than once.

Derek Clayton leads in the 1969 Maxol (Manchester)
Marathon which was won by Ron Hill in 2:13.

For a while, Clayton seemed to run and win every significant distance race in Australia, including the Australian Marathon titles in 1967, 1968, 1971 and 1973.  He was a prolific racer and known as a hard man and focussed runner.  On one occasion, I think in September 1973, Clayton won the VAAA 25km Road Championships on a multi-lap course around the 6km Sandown road racing circuit.  I was 22nd in 89:26 in the same race, but never saw Clayton after the start.  It may be an apocryphal story, but apparently with about a lap to go, Clayton was in the lead but desperately needed a toilet break.  Stopping was not an option, and he finished with some ugly looking stains on the back of his shorts and down his legs, still in the lead.  Not surprisingly, the club-mate in whose car he had travelled to the event, refused to let him into the car for the home journey until he had been hosed down.

Even though I wasn't remotely in Clayton's class, running in the same races as the world's best marathoner early in my career, and seeing first-hand how dedicated and disciplined you needed to be to succeed, made a big impression on me.

I had a comfortable 6km walk this morning at Trotters and wasn't quite as conscious of how my heart was beating.  As each day passes, I get a little more confident that I will soon be running again.

Chorleywood

Chess Valley, England.

For two short years in the early 1990s, I lived in Chorleywood, a village in the Chiltern Hills north-west of London.  The reason I say "short" is that it remains the best place I have ever lived for interesting running courses, and I would have enjoyed living there for much longer.  There was no limit to the number of public footpaths, public bridleways and country lanes that could be cobbled together to make a course of any length, many of which avoided any significant road travel at all.  An added bonus were the tiny villages, hedgerows, country churches, historic mansions, fairy tale woods and rolling fields that made up the Chiltern landscape.  For those unfamiliar with English public footpaths and bridleways, they are historic rights of way, often crossing fields or passing through farmyards, that crisscross the English countryside.  Most are very runnable, though the less frequently used can become overgrown with weeds and nettles.

Chess Valley watercress beds.

It was easy to come up with a different and interesting course for every morning of the week, and despite my relatively short life there, the memories still live large.  All the morning "garbage" runs were good, but if I had to choose a favourite, it would be a regular 13km which captured all of the best local elements.

Starting from home in the village, the route ran along a lane and a couple of back streets before turning onto a farm road and passing by some stables.  From there it crossed the dark Carpenter Wood, with its leaf-littered undulating floor, and under the rail line to London through an old brick arch.  Much of today's Chorleywood village was built by the owners of the railway as a means of encouraging population growth and consequently commuters, though signs of settlement date back to the Paleolithic era.

Chorleywood Common.

The route then travelled along a bridleway which could get muddy after rain, before crossing a road and skirting the historic village of Chenies with its Manor House.  From there it followed a bridleway overlooking the Chess River Valley then descended through West Wood and over a field to cross the river beneath

historic Latimer House.  The next five kilometres followed the river downstream on beautiful and well-travelled public footpaths, through green pastures and passing a water cress farm before crossing the crystal clear river again on a small footbridge and climbing out of the valley through woods and parklands.

Chorleywood Common.

After crossing a busy road, it traversed the superb Chorleywood Common, to reach the village and a solid climb along Shire Lane to home, completing a run that changed with the seasons, and I never tired of doing.  One of the things on my bucket list is to go back and spend a few months, or longer, staying somewhere in Chorleywood, running and walking through the surrounding countryside, and making the easy commute into London to enjoy its attractions.

Today's exercise was the customary Friday golf game, and I was pleased to get around without any of the breathlessness and heart palpitations I experienced last Friday.  After the game, I visited the medical clinic to get my weekly blood coagulability tested, and the doctor checked my pulse.  She thought I was on some kind of medication, it was so slow, but seemed happy when I told her it was usually around 40bpm.  Her opinion was that I could exercise so long as I didn't get my heart rate near maximum, but I'll stick to my plan of only walking until the end of next week.

Marine encounters

Hatteras Island, North Carolina.

Yesterday, as I finished my walk along the Copa beach, I was lucky enough to see a pod of dolphins just beyond the breaking waves.  It's always a thrill to encounter wild animals when out running, and I have written about some of those rare encounters in other posts (Katahdin, More animal encounters, Yellowstone).  Meetings with sea life tend to be even more rare, and yesterday's sighting got me thinking about other such occasions.

Probably the most exciting encounter was thirty years ago when we were touring the U.S. and camped on Hatteras Island, a very long and extremely narrow barrier island off the coast of North Carolina.  Two islands just to the north were Nag's Head, famous for the historic Kill Devil Hills where the Wright Brothers took the first powered flight, and Roanoke, where one of the earliest groups of English colonists in America, comprising 150 people, disappeared without trace some time between ship visits in 1587 and 1590.  Despite the local history, the running options on Hatteras were very limited - either a run along the boring road that traversed the length of the island or along the sandy beach.

Hatteras Island beach.

I chose the latter, and having run a 25 miler the day before, was just cruising southwards along the empty and monotonous beach, when I got the feeling I wasn't alone.  Looking into the small surf to my left, there was a pod of fifteen to twenty dolphins, little more than 20 metres from the water's edge, travelling south at exactly the same speed as me.  I have to believe they knew I was there, because for the next half mile, they maintained their relative position as we eyed each other off.  They then peeled off into deeper water and I was on my own again.  I had another "marine" encounter a mile or two further on, with a very large and very dead hammerhead shark on the water's edge, but that doesn't really count as wildlife.

A whale passes South Point on Wilsons Promontory.

Although not a running encounter, another meeting that lives large in my memory was at the start of a mountain bike ride from the southernmost point of mainland Australia, South Point on Wilsons Promontory, to the northernmost, Cape York, in 2006.  It wasn't possible to ride my bike all the way to South Point for the start because of National Park regulations and difficult trail, so I set out early one morning from the settlement at Tidal River to hike the 42 kilometre round trip.  At the isolated South Point, large and slippery boulders washed by occasionally large swells made it quite difficult to clamber down to the water's edge to fill a small jar of water I was planning to carry for the 4300km journey north and empty into the sea at Cape York.  At one point I wondered whether my journey was going to end where it started, with my body never found, but eventually accomplished the task.  As I climbed back up to a point of relative safety, I heard an incongruous noise just to my right, and there, moving very slowly through the water about 20 metres offshore, and occasionally spouting, was a large black whale.  It was close enough for me to see its eye and it seemed to be looking right at me.  I took the sighting as a good omen, and as it turned out, had a great trip.

I walked 6km today, including some hills, without any difficulty or breathlessness.  However, I am constantly conscious of my heart beating, and although my pulse seems regular, can't escape the feeling that something is not quite right.  I woke in the small hours and couldn't go back to sleep, just lying there hyper-sensitive to my heart beat, trying to work out whether it was functioning properly, and looking for signs that it was not.  It may be, and I hope it is, just some post-procedure anxiety.  If that's right, then my sensitivity will diminish in the next couple of weeks and my confidence will grow, but at the moment I still feel like I am walking on eggshells.

Eggshells

Cockrone Lagoon on this morning's walk.

As I approached the first hill on my walk this morning, I felt my heart was racing in anticipation of whether it would start racing as my effort increased.  Then, as my cardiovascular system worked harder on the steepening grade, I was constantly assessing my body's reaction.

Part of my walk through McMasters
Beach this morning.

The symptoms I had experienced when walking up steep hills prior to Monday's Cardioversion included breathlessness, lightheadedness bordering on fainting, a hollow pressure in the centre of my chest and, as described on some medical websites, a real feeling of dread or impending doom.  There would be a sort of tipping point, where in a matter of seconds, I would go from the familiar feelings of mild fatigue associated with walking up a hill to a sense of the clutch slipping and my internal engine spinning faster and faster in a fruitless attempt to keep my body functioning.  It wasn't a pleasant experience, and I was hoping, rather than expecting, this morning that the Cardioversion had done the trick and my Atrial Flutter was gone.

Bounty Hill steps on this morning's walk
through McMasters Beach.

Since the procedure on Monday afternoon, it has been hard for me to tell whether or not the Cardioversion has made a difference.  I had been taking it easy, and a head cold, blocked sinuses, and a mild headache have made it hard to judge my overall well-being.  However, regular pulse-checking, and a vague feeling that my body was working more efficiently, have been encouraging signs.  The possibility of reversion to Atrial Flutter remains very real, though it will diminish over time, but it will be a while before I stop worrying about the consequences every time I start breathing harder on a walk or run.

Pumice stones on McMasters Beach which
have floated more than 4,000km from an
underwater volcanic eruption north of
New Zealand.

I didn't push it too hard on the hills this morning, and so far as I can tell, my heart is still beating normally.  The 6 kilometre walk passed easily enough, finishing with the bonus of watching a pod of dolphins gambolling just outside the shore break on the Copa beach.  I would like to think it was a good omen, but I don't believe in such things.  Now I need to work out a training plan that will gradually return me to running in a methodical way.  Such a plan will help prevent me trying to do too much too soon, if I feel that things are going well, but I also need to have the common sense to back off the plan if it appears too optimistic as time passes.

Googling the future

Representing Croydon Harriers in a National League
3000m Steeplechase (4th, 9:43.8) at Brighton, England,
in May 1975.

Around 3pm yesterday, I had my DC Cardioversion (DCC) and Transoesophageal Echocardiogram (TOE).  Apparently the DCC went smoothly, and my heart is now beating regularly again (Sinus Rhythm).  It's a very routine procedure these days (you can see a video here), and the anaesthetist referred to it comfortingly as a "barbecue" as he prepped me.  I only saw the hospital cardiologist once, when he shook my hand before I went under, and I didn't get any feedback later apart from the discharge nurse who said my heartbeat was stable in Sinus Rhythm.  On the assumption that "no news is good news", I'm guessing the TOE, with which they were looking for clots and flaws in the heart structure, didn't reveal anything untoward.

I now have a follow-up appointment with my cardiologist in three weeks time, but don't really have any guide as to what I can do, or not do, before then, other than being told to take it very easy today.  Consequently, I have been Googling extensively, particularly on the subject of returning to running after DCC.

Competing in the VMC Marathon (2nd, 2:31) at Tyabb,
Victoria, in June, 1976.

There's no shortage of papers identifying long-term endurance athletes as having a much higher risk of Atrial Fibrillation or Flutter than people of similar age, but it's hard to determine what is the outlook for those returning to the sport after treatment.  There are opinions expressed that they are more likely to have future heart and related problems, but no studies I could find.  Every individual is different, and there would be few people in the world who have trained and run endurance events over as many years as me, so there are unlikely to be any specifically relevant medical studies, anyway.

A good friend and long-time endurance athlete, Bill, suggests I accept my lot and cut back to roughly an hour's non-competitive running a day and be thankful that I can do that.  Time and energy freed up can then be devoted to other interests, such as writing.  I can see the sense in this suggestion, but am not yet convinced that it is the best course for me.  I'm still in the "Bargaining" stage referred to in a previous post, and want to believe there's some middle ground.

Comparing hamstring flexibility with Bill after the VAAA
Marathon Championship (4th, 2:22) in March 1983.

Part of the problem is determining what sort of running increases the risks for me.  Racing, and training to race, definitely generates more heart stress than running as a non-competitive recreation.  A race gets my adrenalin pumping and I always perform significantly better than I could manage in a non-competitive time trial. Likewise, upcoming races, get me to training harder and longer than I probably would otherwise.  I love competition and the preparation for races, but believe I could live without it, if it lowered my risk of further heart problems.  I think I could be satisfied with moderate short runs during the week, the regular Saturday Trotters run without getting too competitive, and a relaxed long trail run on a Sunday.

I'll continue walking for the next couple of weeks and then try some jogging just before I see the Cardiologist.  The statistics show that DCCs are 99% successful, but have a 50% reversion rate.  I'm assuming that I will be one of those 50% reverting, and my Cardiologist has already said he thinks I may ultimately need a Catheter Ablation.

Over with

1982 Montreal International Marathon (46th, 2:29).

Motivation was low today, and after several days with less sleep because of early morning commitments, I stayed in bed procrastinating.  Not really sleeping, just dozing, with a mild headache giving me another excuse to dally.  Maybe it was my imagination, but I sensed my heart was racing some of the time, even when lying in bed, and that wasn't good news.

Eventually I rose, watched one of my favourite political programs over a late and light breakfast, and headed out for a 5km walk on a very warm and sunny morning.  The walk started with a moderate hill and I was a little disturbed to already feel out of breath and conscious of my heart racing.  After another hill on which I again struggled mildly, I had to stop and hold the railing on a short flight of steps and even toyed with the idea of returning home.

The leading bunch in the 1983
Victorian Marathon Championship
(4th, 2:22).

I feel my condition has gradually deteriorated over the six weeks since I was first diagnosed with problems.  Just a few days before my first doctor's visit, when I was already dealing with the symptoms of breathlessness and a racing heart, I had been able to run an easy-paced 30km along mountain trails without major issues.  It seems inconceivable that I could do that today.  As I walked this morning, it was pleasing to know my DC Cardioversion was scheduled for tomorrow, and that I wasn't still waiting for the originally scheduled specialists appointments in two weeks time.

I haven't been optimistic about the permanency of the cardioversion, but feel more hopeful after a discussion with a doctor friend last night at a social gathering.  She saw no reason why a cardioversion might not be a long-term solution and cited her own father as an example.  Nevertheless, I think it's prudent to be a little cautious.  I don't feel anxious about the procedure, though that may change as the hour approaches (2:30pm tomorrow afternoon).  I just want it to be over with.

The episode on the stairs passed after a minute or so, and I decided to continue with my walk and completed it safely, despite a few more minor occasions of breathlessness.

In a perfect world, the cardioversion will immediately improve my quality of life as my heart returns to normal, but it's not a perfect world.  Fingers crossed.

Nelse-Bogong Loop

Bogong High Plains near Mount Nelse.

In December 2011, I decided to stop off for a few days on the Bogong High Plains on my way back from Melbourne to Copa after visiting relatives.  I booked a small apartment for my stay with the intention of getting in a few long runs at altitude on the High Plains as part of my preparation for the Bogong to Hotham 64km the following month.  I was coming back from injury and felt some long runs would build my stamina and confidence.

For the biggest long run, I mapped out a 50+ kilometre loop that incorporated part of the course of the upcoming race and set out at 7:00am on a cool sunny morning from near the Rocky Valley Storage Dam.  The half-way point was to be the summit of Mount Bogong (1986m), and although the last half of the course was along familiar trail, the first half of the loop wasn't, and I was excited about running some new trail.  I headed north towards the barren Mount Nelse for the first 8km which climbed gradually away from the Dam on easy running fire-trail.

Mount Bogong from Grey Hills.

I expected the run would take me seven to eight hours and I was wearing a Camelbak containing a couple of Snickers Bars, a map, my phone, a rain-jacket and a cup for getting water out of streams to drink.  Before leaving my apartment I had a slice of toast and jam and figured that the Snickers Bars would be sufficient nutrition for the time I would be out.

At Warby Corner, near Mount Nelse, I turned left onto the Spion Kopje track which followed a high spur westwards with expansive views north and south of fog-shrouded valleys in very still conditions.  I was fresh, the running was easy, and not a soul was in sight.  I felt privileged to have the place to myself, and lucky to be fit enough to do the run.

Quartz Ridge from Mount Bogong.

Things started to change after 5km when I turned north along the much harder to follow Grey Hills Track which followed a scrub covered spur over a series of knolls.  In many places the wiry scratching scrub obscured the track and the going was slow with the occasional short climbs sapping my energy in the thinner air.  The views were still good, but a lot of my time was devoted to watching where my feet were going, especially near the end of the track which descended steeply to Bogong Creek Saddle.  After a brief section of firetrail, I began the steady ascent of the Quartz Ridge Trail towards the summit of Bogong and the half-way point.

Around this time, the sky clouded over and the weather began to look more ominous, a common pattern in the high country.  It was also around this time that my lack of fitness and the harder work along the Grey Hills Track began to kick in, and I found myself walking the steeper sections.  As the trail approached the Hooker Plateau, near Bogong, it passed along an exposed ridge near Quartz Knob with sheer drops to the west.  It was quite runnable but the trail wasn't always obvious and a few times I just headed cross-country in what I surmised to be the correct direction until I again picked up the trail.

At the summit of Mount Bogong (1986m).

At the summit of Mount Bogong, rain seemed imminent and the wind was picking up, so I didn't stay long before heading south-east along the bare ridge to Cleve Cole Hut and some more sheltered trail.  It soon began to rain steadily and I donned my rain-jacket, starting to feel a little cold.  The rain continued on the long technical descent to Big River through the mountain forest.  This is a beautiful section of trail and the rain just made it more atmospheric.  There's nothing quite like running or hiking through rain in an Australian eucalypt forest.  Despite now being way behind schedule, I was still enjoying myself and stopped to get a drink from a small stream just after crossing the raging Big River, hanging onto the wire safety cable.

Roper Hut.

I knew the long climb up Duane Spur would be tough - it always is in the Bogong to Hotham race - and it did not disappoint.  I was soon walking and starting to feel very hollow.  My Snickers Bars were long gone and I had had nothing else to eat for eight hours.  Half way up the climb I began to feel light-headed and could feel myself bonking.  Fantasising about Mars Bars is always a sure sign I have exhausted my glycogen energy supplies and am starting to slowly burn fats, and I was ravenous for a Mars Bar.  I started to doubt my ability to finish inside of twelve hours, thinking I would have to walk all the way back to the car, when the trail passed near Roper Hut.

From experience, I knew that hikers sometimes left unused food in mountain huts and I wasn't disappointed, though the choice was limited.  There was a glass container containing a small amount of sultanas and nuts of uncertain age, and several small sealed sachets of dried apple, something I had never previously tried.  I started eating the sultanas and nuts, which definitely tasted very old, wondering what kinds of unseen fungus they might contain and what would be the health consequences.  After a few more, I decided I would be safer with the dried apple and left with the sachets.  They weren't very big and didn't last long, but I could feel my energy levels lifting and resumed running the level sections of trail with about 10km to go.  Before long, I was wishing I had taken all of the sultanas and nuts to eat, but was saved by the gradual downhill run after Mount Nelse and finished back at my car eleven hours after I had started.  I'm sure I could run this course a lot faster if fully fit and maybe a bit more nutrition en route, but it was satisfying nevertheless, and the completion of such runs often gives my training program a kick start.

I only managed a 4km walk this morning because of time constraints, but did it comfortably.

The other side

Running near Moab in Utah in 2012.

There's little doubt now that I will never run another sub-3 hour marathon.  So, you may ask, why is this blog continuing?

I always had at the back of my mind a plan to use these blog posts as raw material for a book that would organise the content more coherently, and hopefully, encourage people to run and explore their potential.  In a perfect world, the climax of the story would have been a sub-3 hour marathon, but life is seldom perfect, and this blog has morphed into a diary of ageing and its challenges to the obsessed runner.

Writing a blog post almost every day is not necessary, of course, but it's a good discipline on me to generate content and it also serves as a diary to record my thoughts and emotions on this part of life's journey if I do ever come to write a book.

Running the half-marathon leg in a relay Half Ironman
with my siblings in Geelong in 2010.

You never know how you will deal with serious health issues when they arrive.  I have had recent first-hand experience of friends diagnosed with cancer and pulmonary embolisms and it's hard to know how they are feeling about their condition, or what to say to them without seeming patronizing or out-of-touch with their reality.  Now I'm starting to see it from the other side of the fence.

One thing that has surprised me is how fatalistic I feel about it all.  Of course, I will do everything I can to get well, run again and have a long life.  But, suddenly, it's conceivable that none of these things will happen.  When you learn that the mortality rate from undiagnosed pulmonary embolisms is 26% and you have episodes when you feel your heart beating at 235 beats per minute (that's nearly four beats per second!) and your blood pressure crashing, a new reality dawns.

A member of the Tiffin Boys Grammar School Cross-
Country team (sitting on the grass) in 1967 in London.

Much to Sharon's concern, I have started getting my life in order, making sure my records aren't in too much of a mess, that my will is current, and that everything important can be found relatively easily.  If the worst suddenly happened, and it could always be an ill-timed truck, rather than a health problem, I want the clean-up to be as easy as possible.

"What ifs" don't figure at all in my thinking.  I have always been an advocate, when decisions arise, of gathering as much information as feasible, making a careful analysis, and choosing the best apparent option.  Once done, no regrets and no looking back wondering "what if".  Although there are many things I still want to do, experience and see, I can honestly say that I have had a full and interesting life.  If the lights went out tomorrow, I would be more worried about the impact on my loved ones than any missed opportunities of my own.

My exercise for today consisted of nine holes of golf with friends, Dave and Bruce, on a beautiful sunny morning.  Sadly, the conditions were not matched by my form.  I played quite badly for the first six holes, and more worryingly, had some episodes when I could feel my heart pounding and my blood pressure dropping while dragging my buggy up small hills.  This was a new and disheartening (literally) experience on the golf course, but my mood lifted somewhat as I parred the last three holes, something I can never remember doing before.

Little nuisances

Terrigal Trotters doing leech inspections after a trail run.

After yesterday's somewhat heavy blog post, I thought I would talk about something lighter today, the little creepy crawlies that I have encountered while running.

Probably the worst are leeches, which are quite common on the NSW Central Coast where I now live.  In fact, I don't recall ever encountering them while running before moving here ten years ago.  You can get leeches on any long run in the nearby forests, but they are usually worst after rain and in the moist rainforest gullies.  Runners have various home remedies for keeping them at bay, but I don't think any are fool-proof.

One of the offenders.

The leech bites themselves are not painful, but the sight of an engorged leech, or one looking for somewhere to latch on, is always a gruesome find.  Getting them off can be tough, though I have usually managed to flick or pull them off.  Alternatives are salt or flame, I hear.  Often you do not know you have one until you see blood on a shoe or sock, and I have seen some very bloody socks revealed when shoes are removed.  There are also plenty of stories about leeches being found on other parts of the anatomy that I won't go into here.  Initially, the main problem is the anticoagulant used by the leech to facilitate feeding which causes their bites to bleed continuously.  However, the worst impact comes a few days later when the bites begin to itch savagely.  I have woken up at night scratching furiously at badly bitten, red and swollen ankles.  In some cases, the bites can even lead to blood poisoning and a trip to hospital, as happened to Sharon a few years ago.

A Golden Orb spider.

Spider webs are an occupational hazard for trail runners and it often pays to run behind someone else when you are the first runners along a trail.  I'm not aware of ever having been bitten by a spider while out running, but the encounters can be scary.  Locally, we have the Golden Orb spider which is quite large and builds strong and extensive webs, often across trails.  The large spider then sits in the web waiting for something to be caught.  They generally feed on moths, beetles and insects caught in their webs, but they have been known to catch and eat small birds and bats.  I have had the experience of running into one of the webs and then, while scrambling to extricate myself, finding the huge spider almost sitting on my face.  They're not dangerous, but can give you a good scare.

The country lane in Essex near where I was stung
by the wasp.

Perhaps the biggest scare I had from a small animal happened when I was out for a long Sunday morning run through the Essex countryside one Spring Sunday morning.  A wasp flew into my mouth and bit me on the very back of my tongue near my throat before I could spit it out.  Initially, it was just painful, and I continued running, but a few kilometres later, I could feel my tongue swelling up and my breathing becoming restricted.  I decided that discretion was the better part of valour and swallowing my pride (actually I couldn't swallow anything by this time), I found a public telephone in a small village and called my wife reverse charges to come and get me.  I was a bit anxious for the next couple of hours, but the swelling gradually subsided and there were no other symptoms.

Voyageurs Provincial Park, near Montreal in Canada.

Flies and mosquitoes can also be irritating, but not particularly dangerous.  I can still remember a long run in a Voyageur Provincial Park near Montreal in Canada in the late spring when the mosquitoes were voracious and biting me incessantly through the back of my sweaty T-shirt, no matter how fast I ran.  You just have to try not to think about it or it drives you nuts.  Apparently caribou lose half a pint of blood a day to mosquitoes in the spring and early summer.

I walked about 6km today, taking care not to get my heart rate too high when walking up hills.  I learned that my Electrical Cardioversion procedure will be this coming Monday.

1:1 AV Conduction

One of my heart rate peaks, as measured by the
Holter Monitor.

Late today, I had my Cardiologist appointment to discuss my recent Echocardiogram and Holter Monitor results.  He was a fit-looking guy in his fifties and was sympathetic to my plight and my desire to resume running.

It seems that my efforts to give them something to look at while I was wearing the Holter Monitor a week ago were more successful, and risky, than I thought.  The two episodes I had of palpitating heart and lightheadedness while walking up a steep hill, matched recorded instances of my heart rate reaching around 230 beats per minute.

Diagram of the heart showing the path of the macro-reentry
circuit (wavy red line).

Normally, the upper (Atrium) and lower (Ventricle) chambers of the heart beat at the same rate.  However, with Atrial Flutter (AFl), the Atrium beats significantly faster than usual because of a sort of electrical short-circuit (macro-reentry circuit) and a proportion of these faster beats stimulate beats in the Ventricle.  The rate of conduction is determined by a physiological barrier between the chambers and is usually 2:1 for people with AFl (and sometimes 3:1 or 4:1).  When I walk too hard, or run, my ratio appears to change to 1:1 where every superfast beat in the Atrium stimulates a corresponding beat in the Ventricle.

One medical website I found says "Atrial flutter with 1:1 conduction is associated with severe haemodynamic instability and progression to ventricular fibrillation", so I need to keep my heart rate lower until I get treatment.  This diagnosis was a little more worrisome than I had anticipated.

The cardiologist is scheduling me for an Electrocardioversion within the next week aimed at resetting my heart's electrical system (in layman's terms) using externally-delivered electrical stimulus (the paddles, or similar).  The cardiologist warned that this procedure may not yield a long-lasting solution, so I shouldn't get my hopes up.  I will be able to resume my running, but the AFl could return, and I will have to stop again.

If that happens, then when I'm no longer considered at risk of further Deep Vein Thrombosis or Pulmonary Embolism, they will try a Cardiac Ablation using a catheter inserted into the heart through the femoral vein to cauterise the tissue where electrical short-circuit is occurring in the Atrium.  This procedure has a high success rate and provides a longer-lasting solution, but I know everybody is different and I'm not counting my chickens yet.

I walked about 5km today, with no significant hills, and felt fine.

[Disclaimer:  I have no medical qualifications at all and there may be significant errors in this blog post.]