Part Three of the Tribute to Norm Series
Norm hates heat
As my running developed, Norm was also reaching his peak condition. He always seemed an unlikely runner: he was barrel-chested, thick-boned, and his carriage was never more than a shuffle. Still, he could run, and for a while there could run under 8-minute pace on most regular runs. Norm was running many 5ks, 10ks, and even did a couple of marathons (broke 4 hours!). In spite of everything, Norm could run.
That isn't to say things always went easily. It would be fairer to say Norm was successful despite all the odds stacked against him. His most serious obstacle was without doubt heat. Norm could not stand up to the heat.
It was obvious why. Remember the barrel-chested, thick boned description? It's doubtful his body weight ever dipped below 190 lbs., and at that weight, the thick core would create immense quantities of heat that no amount of sweat could vent. His body would simply run itself dry trying to dissipate his high temperatures.
Once, during that first summer of our running together, he and I decided to go down old 37 (now Dixie Highway). We planned to run from the boat ramp, to the intersection of new and old 37, then double back. Distance was about 7 miles, it wouldn't have too many hills, and we knew someone along the course who could give us water.
That was important, because the day was sweltering. The humidity was high, the temperatures in the late morning were already climbing, and our pace suffered. It was tough going out, and though the trip back was mostly flat to downhill, it seemed like forever away.
Norm was normally pretty glib during a run - at least when he could breathe - but on this day he grew quieter and quieter. For the non-runner, someone growing quiet is a reliable sign things are going awry. Norm wasn't so much quiet as he was disconnected, even incoherent. He was still running, but the noise coming from his mouth was making marginally less sense than he normally did (okay, a lot less sense than normal). He was in trouble, and I knew it.
I couldn't just leave him. I didn't think we could get back to the car. Thinking fast, I knew the cemetery had a fountain. If there was water in it, no matter how dank, it just might save Norm. So I pushed him into the entrance of the grounds, gambling the fountain would have something in it.
It did. It was tepid, stinking, and brackish, but it was there. I didn't hesitate. I shoved him in, head first, into the water. I rolled him completely in, soaking him up to his shoes. It didn't take long. As he cooled down, his awareness came back, and he was quite surprised to find himself sitting in a fountain.
We finished the run, given we were a little over a mile from the finish, and Norm was none the worse for wear. I'd never seen anyone lose consciousness and remain on their feet before, so I was more than a bit amazed at what I'd seen. Turns out it wouldn't be the last time.
Tomorrow: More fun in the heat
Norm hates heat
As my running developed, Norm was also reaching his peak condition. He always seemed an unlikely runner: he was barrel-chested, thick-boned, and his carriage was never more than a shuffle. Still, he could run, and for a while there could run under 8-minute pace on most regular runs. Norm was running many 5ks, 10ks, and even did a couple of marathons (broke 4 hours!). In spite of everything, Norm could run.
That isn't to say things always went easily. It would be fairer to say Norm was successful despite all the odds stacked against him. His most serious obstacle was without doubt heat. Norm could not stand up to the heat.
It was obvious why. Remember the barrel-chested, thick boned description? It's doubtful his body weight ever dipped below 190 lbs., and at that weight, the thick core would create immense quantities of heat that no amount of sweat could vent. His body would simply run itself dry trying to dissipate his high temperatures.
Once, during that first summer of our running together, he and I decided to go down old 37 (now Dixie Highway). We planned to run from the boat ramp, to the intersection of new and old 37, then double back. Distance was about 7 miles, it wouldn't have too many hills, and we knew someone along the course who could give us water.
That was important, because the day was sweltering. The humidity was high, the temperatures in the late morning were already climbing, and our pace suffered. It was tough going out, and though the trip back was mostly flat to downhill, it seemed like forever away.
Norm was normally pretty glib during a run - at least when he could breathe - but on this day he grew quieter and quieter. For the non-runner, someone growing quiet is a reliable sign things are going awry. Norm wasn't so much quiet as he was disconnected, even incoherent. He was still running, but the noise coming from his mouth was making marginally less sense than he normally did (okay, a lot less sense than normal). He was in trouble, and I knew it.
I couldn't just leave him. I didn't think we could get back to the car. Thinking fast, I knew the cemetery had a fountain. If there was water in it, no matter how dank, it just might save Norm. So I pushed him into the entrance of the grounds, gambling the fountain would have something in it.
It did. It was tepid, stinking, and brackish, but it was there. I didn't hesitate. I shoved him in, head first, into the water. I rolled him completely in, soaking him up to his shoes. It didn't take long. As he cooled down, his awareness came back, and he was quite surprised to find himself sitting in a fountain.
We finished the run, given we were a little over a mile from the finish, and Norm was none the worse for wear. I'd never seen anyone lose consciousness and remain on their feet before, so I was more than a bit amazed at what I'd seen. Turns out it wouldn't be the last time.
Tomorrow: More fun in the heat
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