The Treadmill Incident

“You don’t look too good.”

I’ve noticed that guys never hesitate to say that to each other, especially a buddy. Richard is my buddy. He and I ran together on the treadmills at the Coliseum Gym every Monday and Friday morning. I would get to gym first and spend a half hour with Tim, my personal trainer, before joining up with Richard on the treadmills.

We had been doing this on and off for a few years. For the past year we were frequently joined by Fred and Phil. I mention this because the four of us represented four different decades. Fred is in his seventies, Richard is in his sixties, I am in my fifties and Phil is in his forties. I swear to god that we didn’t consciously set it up this way but we were usually aligned in that exact chronological order. Fred was in the best shape of all of us. I was the only one who had a heart attack.

It had been two days since I first noticed “tightness” in my chest. That morning I went through my normal half hour weight training with Tim. Surprisingly, I made it through the weight lifting regime as I normally would. It would not be accurate to say that it was without difficulty because at 5:30 on a Friday morning everything is difficult. This particular day did not seem that exceptional, except of course for that nagging little tightness in my chest. At this point I am beginning to add the word “nagging” to tightness.

After Tim and I finished I headed on over to the treadmills. Fred and Richard were already going at it. Typically Richard will go for an hour while I usually settle for fifty minutes. God only knows how long Fred goes. He starts first, followed by Richard, followed by me, and followed by Phil, again, in that strangely coincidental chronological order.

I started up at a pace of 6.2 miles per hour. After about five minutes I was completely gassed. I look over to Richard on my right. “I don’t feel too good this morning.” Apparently I didn’t look so hot either.

“You don’t look so good.”

“I think I’ll call it quits.”

Richard quickly endorses this decision. “You should go home and lie down.”

I’m all over that. I headed on home and went back to bed. Denise tells me to make an appointment with Steve Diener, my primary care doc. Another good idea.

It was nine days before my heart attack.