I started running, badly, in 1980. I had started college at the SUNY unit furthest from home, much like my kids, just wanting to get away, and plant a flag somewhere. I was way up and to the left at Plattsburgh, on a flat bit of land left from when the glaciers were lifting the Adirondacks to the east and melting themselves into Lake Champlain. We could see the lights of Burlington, Vermont across the water, there was still a paper mill upwind of town, and the naval air base had not been closed, so Tomcats on full afterburner often flew overhead, out past the Pricechopper and into the wilderness, keeping us safe from the French speaking Canadians in rural Quebec. I had no real talent for running but I had a pair of blue New Balance favored by the running great Willie Nelson and I was going to participate in the running boom even if it killed me, which seemed possible given how it made me feel.
Willie, making the wise choice to rehydrate post run with coffee, something in a red solo cup, and a huge serving platter of weed. A true champion of the running community.
The girls in the dorm went for runs in the afternoon after class and they put up with my gasping, wheezing and the general complaining. I had yet to quit smoking for the last and final time, which didn’t do me any favors either. But in that time outside, I found so many of the things we all want, companionship with others, a sport that offered endless challenges, a sport that accepted the very worst and humbled the very best. I was all in. Over time, I found sports as a way to connect with the better person I wanted to be, the person at peace, the person not picked last in gym class, an actual athlete.
Over the years, I did other stuff that uncoordinated people with large hearts and lungs tend to gravitate towards and I became part of a community that goes to bed at 9pm., and can’t think of the last person they saw smoking, and can speak in a spew of numbers that have meaning, but no meaning. At the time, computers had not been discovered, so I would go to the bookstore and purchase the absolute cheapest calendar book and write my workouts down along with little comments about life, incessant injuries, and shopping lists. I still have some kicking around, and it’s such a carnival of excess, I was not just raising a cup at the great feast of life, I was trying to eat the tablecloth and flatware.
And I snored away through it all. At some point, Kate pointed out that I had my mom’s snore, which was true and not news because it was so freaking loud I would wake myself up sometimes. For decades, I would retire to “The Snoring Bed” or wake up alone after a night of being kicked. Kate found it endearing, but after 20 years I thought it might be considerate to deal with the issue, so in 2014 after attempting to purchase multiple used CPAP machines off Craigslist, I found myself taking a sleep test to confirm what I already knew and walked out with this big loud box and a stupid looking mask that I was to wear at night. Similar to getting used to sleeping with an octopus clamped to one's face, it took some getting used to, but Kate was supportive and doubtless happy with the somewhat more peaceful nights.
And so, the reader wonders where this story is going, starting with triumph on the shores of Lake Champlain, and finding us abed snoring like a Johnson Seahorse outboard motor. Just trust me to pivot this great ship, I’m a trained professional and all. So, I had occasion to get a copy of my 2014 study the other day and reading through it I noticed two buried sentences that noted my heart was doing some funny stuff. I was at that point just entering my 50’s and was still racing on the bike with the younger guys but struggling a bit, assuming I had developed exercise induced asthma and was messing with all nature of warmups and strategies and medications without much success. With the note in my chart about the funny heart behavior, both the doctor and I pretty much ignored it. I had been exercising and racing competitively for decades at that point and was in great health. So it laid dormant, like a sneaky octopus on the seafloor, waiting to clamp someone’s face in the dead of night.
Maybe 5 years back I was doing a weeknight training race on the mountain bike and settled in for a climbing section on the first lap. My heart rate kept climbing higher, but I was going slower, moving aside to let others pass until I had to stop and let things settle down. I finished the lap and dropped out, a bit shaken. A visit to the cardiologist confirmed that I was having some electrical issues that caused the heart to flutter under hard efforts, which led to high numbers but not much actual blood pumping. So I just backed off a bit when the lights on the dashboard lit up and figured it was something to live with.
Last winter, I went for a fat bike ride with a friend and was struggling hard to keep up. In looking at my file afterward, the heart rate was alarming, like something from when I was 20, not 60. Perhaps I was just tired or had a bad octopus for dinner the prior night, no big deal. The next day I skied the long loop at the Art Roscoe trail with a couple friends, and same deal, struggle, and real high numbers. At night in bed my heart was in the 80’s. At that point my heart had gone into an Afib rhythm, where it would stay until May. As spring turned to summer, another raft of tests and my new cardiologist told me I had cardiomyopathy and needed to restrict my activities to mall walking and lifting weights of 10 pounds and less. He prescribed a pile of medicines which I threw in the trash and went looking for a few more opinions until I found one I liked, one that wasn’t getting picked last for gym class, one where the me that was still me could come out to play, if even just a little.
And so, back in May I went to Cleveland Clinic for a week and got shocked back into a normal sinus rhythm. At that point my heart was pumping blood with the efficiency of a pretty sick person, but it was also freaking huge from a life of exercise, so I was getting on pretty well, riding Paris to Ancaster with Aubrey, and getting out and moving at least. Over time, things have improved, perhaps because I take a fistful of medicine every damn day, or perhaps because my heart is repairing itself. I detest taking drugs every day, hate managing medications, don’t like feeling diminished, less than, outside of the circle I have lived in for so many decades of my life. But there is still the next thing over the hill, and sometimes the view is great. I’m still doing the cyclocross races, bringing up the rear but spending the day in the community I have been helping to build over more than 20 years. I rode close to 500 miles in the fall to visit my daughter and felt great. I’m learning about rock climbing and hoping to jump in a cross country ski marathon this winter, and lumbered through my 30th turkey trot, edging out the people in ape costumes. Which is fine, I’m not mall walking and I’m here for the people that matter.
So what was the point of this whole self serving narrative? I guess I want to close the story with a moral. I had made a number of assumptions about heart disease that were wrong, to wit:
Being a lifelong endurance athlete insulates a person from the heart problems that inflict the normal civilians
Snoring is cute and harmless
The ability to ignore pain is useful in most areas of life
The octopus is a nice animal
I had a documented problem back in 2014. I was seeing performance declines that were beyond age related and I chose to ignore it. I had continued warning signs that I ignored until all four engines were on fire and the landing gear was jammed. Then I pushed back until I got the opinion I could live with.
Heart disease kills more than half a million Americans every year. Middle aged men with a history of lifelong competitive endurance sports are often more predisposed to develop afib. Having afib can lead to strokes, and having been a caregiver for a stroke victim, you do not want to put your loved ones through that, reference past issue “words fail me”. Snoring is strongly correlated with apnea and heart problems. Managing snoring leads to better sleep and happier relationships, and it protects the heart. I should have started using the damn machine in 1980. It looks stupid, but so do bike shorts.
So, for my peers and age-mates, do please keep an eye on your heart. We want to be here for the next bike camping trip out in the woods, the next graduation, the grand child, holding hands in the movies with our sweetheart. Get a second opinion, get a fourth opinion. I went from “don’t lift more than 10 pounds and stop all cycling” to “maybe avoid 1 rep max efforts and use common sense” by shopping around a bit. To me it mattered a lot. It matters to many of you too, that I know.
So the moral? I don’t know, somewhere between don’t be an idiot and cherishing every second with the people you love. Wishing all you life and love in this upcoming holiday season.
You do have some history of engaging in unreasonable adventures and questionable self care. I recall the story of a youthful bike trip with David Barrick on route 20 being one that required rescue as you went a bit further than planned and ran into issues with weather, a lack of food, water or money. (Or all four?). At that point you did have your mom or dad to come rescue common you a role I assume Kate plays now….
You also have a history of scorning physicians recommendations as I recall helping you cut a notch in a cast on your leg and then helping you tape that foot to the peddle of a bike you were going to ride come hell or high water right after your parents dropped you at our house in college (not SUNY though) and said you were not to walk much let alone bike. The cast didn’t last long and you did recover on your own terms but the homestyle physical therapy required was suspect. “Steve get that bag of ice from the freezer and come pour it in the tub….”
At least you are listening to doctors now, also a good trajectory.
All said I am glad you made it to sixty, have generally dodged real trouble and are finding ways to make peace with your broken bits. I hope to cross paths with you sometime in the not too distant future my friend and appreciate your stories in the meantime.
Hi John,
Wonderful article. I love Willie and love you too. My dad died at 60 of a heart attack. He was fit and newly retired and hanging out in Tucson. It didn't have to be that way. He ignored signs. I got checked out after that. I have an enlarged aortic root. Not dangerous yet but if left to its own devices it causes what's called the "Widow Maker". We didn't do an autopsy on my dad to see if that was the cause. But whatever the cause, it sure made a widow of my 59 year old mother. And it didn't have to be hat way. I'm so glad your paying attention. We want you here for a long time.