Pell Bridge Run.
When my friend Liz asked me to do a race with her in November, I was more concerned about whether or not I was home to participate instead of concerning myself with the specifics of the race itself.
“November 10th? Sure, I’m home that weekend.”
And then I looked at the details: it was a a 4.2 mile race over the Pell Bridge in Newport, RI. At 6.30 in the morning. On a Sunday.
A Facebook message to my friend: “Liz, I finally followed directions and signed up. But this shit starts at 6.30 in the morning? Blargh.”
But what sounded like the absolute suck was a really amazing experience, watching the sun rise as several thousand runners crested over the bridge, moving towards a common goal.
Performance-wise, I struggled, but that’s okay. Lots of rookie mistakes in play: a terrible night’s sleep (< 4 hours), a new infusion set put in morning of, a fasting blood sugar of 298 mg/dL that required an aggressive correction bolus (so that I would come down in time to not have the desire to pee on the peak of the bridge), and too much insulin on board (IOB) when I met the rest of the racers at the starting line. Thankfully, I reduced my basal rate at 4 am when I woke up, so I didn’t have my normal dawn phenomenon rate in play.
CGM check 20 minutes before the race: 158 mg/dL with an arrow pointing straight down
Meter check for confirmation: 139 mg/dL.
Bananarama: Ate a banana without bolusing for it, and chewed a Shot Blok to get some carbs coursing through my system before setting off.
Packing heat: And I had my Spibelt with two sleeves of Shot Bloks, my Dexcom receiver, and my meter. I was ready for anything.
At 6.25 am, five minutes before the starting gun, I was 108 mg/dL on the Dexcom with an arrow pointing due east, so I hoped the banana/Shot Blok combo was enough to see me through. But as the gun fired and runners started up the bridge, I felt that telltale heat washing over my body in waves of oncoming hypoglycemia. I popped another shot blok, but shaky hands told me I needed to consult my CGM, so 3/4 of a mile into the race, I acknowledged the 50 mg/dL and the down arrow winking back at me.
“You can go screw,” I thought.
I had to slow my pace down to fuss through the low, but after a few minutes (and thanks, in part, to the adrenaline that surely helped spike me closer to range), the down arrow disappeared and was soon replaced by a gently sloping northeast arrow on my Dexcom graph. I continued down the bridge, and then through downtown Newport, towards the finish line.
It was early, it hurt, I was a little sluggish post-low, but my legs responded to my requests, and I kept going.
Thoughts of “I can’t do this,” were replaced by, “Oh hell yes I can.”
I’m not a fast runner. Not a graceful one, either (more of a plodder). But I get there. And even though diabetes was a bit to blame for delaying my sprint across the finish line, it is fully to blame for bringing me to the starting line.
(And this run gave me a great Big Blue Test to log – 139 mg/dL at the outset, 158 mg/dL at the close, after 4.2 miles, 44 minutes, and about 40 grams of carbs. Exercise for the freaking WIN!)
Being on the blood sugar wagon is good, and easy to stay on once I’m settled in and wheeling along, whistling Dixie or maybe not because I can’t whistle so perhaps instead humming the theme song to The Facts of Life. But holy moly, falling off the wagon hurts, because it’s usually a face-first plummet into mud, or some unmentionable. Like full-sugar pudding. Or a pile of cacti. Or perhaps shit.
