fan'ta-sy, phan'ta-sy, n.: [ME. fantasye, fauntasye; OFr. fantasie; LL. phantasia, an idea,
notion; Gr. phantasia, the look or appearance of a thing.]
1. imagination or fancy; especially, wild, visionary fancy.
3. a whim; queer notion; caprice.
re-al'i-ty, n.; [Fr. realite.]
4. in philosophy, that which is real: see real
re'al, n. the saury. (?)
sau'ry, n.; pl. sau'ries, [prob. from Fr. saur, sorrel.] a long, slender sea fish of the genus
Scomberesox, found in temperate Atlantic waters: it has a projecting beak. (????)
mar'a-thon, n.
1. a foot race of 26 miles, 385 yards, run over an open course: so called in allusion to the
story of the Greek runner who went from Marathon to Athens to tell of the victory over
the Persians (490 BC), and then dropped dead.
- Webster's New Universal Unabridged Dictionary, Deluxe Second Edition
Imagine for a moment, if you will, the leg of a runner.
Look at the surface of the leg - the way it flexes and moves, the way the muscles bulge and
relax beneath the surface. Look at the way the joints work - heel, ankle, knee and hip all
working together in a ballet of movement.
Now look deeper - peel away the skin and examine the underlying structure..
[Sound of hysterical, anguished screaming, a thrashing of limbs and the wide, wild eyes of
a victim in mortal agony...]
No, no, no - HYPOTHETICALLY, peel away the skin and subcutaneous layer of
fat. Look at the muscle groups that collectively form what we call "the calf". Look at how
they work together, sliding, stretching, contracting, gliding around like some sort of
demented, possessed leg of lamb.
"Mmmmm... Laaaamb....," Fladd thinks to himself as he plods through his training run,
daydreaming of a honey-glazed lamb turning slowly on a spit.
Thud, thud, pant...."Mmm..."
Thud, thud, pant...."Mmm..."
Look closer still. Look at the Achilles tendon - that ribbon of white tissue that ties the calf
muscles to the bones of the leg. With every stride, the muscles try their best to leap away
from the bone, only to be held in place by the Achilles. Watch as it is jarred and stretched
with every footfall.
Thud, thud, pant...
Fladd speeds up briefly, gaining momentum before leaping over a snowbank and landing
ankle-deep in a puddle.
Look even more closely at the Achilles tendon. Look deep into it - at the tiny fibers that it
is made of. Look at them stretch and relax with every footfall.
Stretch....relax....stretch....relax...
Watch as they slide around under the surface of their protective sheath.
Stretch and slide...relax and slide...stretch and slide...
As you look ever more closely, you see that things are not working as smoothly as they
should. The muscles and tendon have not been properly stretched; each footfall jars the
fibers just the slightest bit too much. The pressure from the back of an ill-fitting running
shoe presses rhythmically against the sheath, causing even more stress. The shock of cold
water caused by running through a puddle of icewater makes the tissue contract sharply,
only to be suddenly jerked back into a stretch on the next step.
Tiny tears - micro-traumas - appear in the tendon.
"Hey, look at me - I'm a musk-ox!" Fladd shouts as he plows through another snowbank,
tries unsuccessfully to avoid another puddle and is nearly hit by a car.
Thud, thud, pant...
In a desperate attempt to maintain its structural integrity, the tendon builds up scar tissue - a
gooey, mozzarella cheese-like mass to bind the injured fibers together. The fibers start
clumping together, giving each other support, but losing more and more of their elasticity
in the process.
Thud, thud, pant... Thud, thud, pant...
Fladd rounds a corner and settles into a faster stride, pushing his pace and his breathing as
he completes mile 14 of a 19 mile training run.
Thudthudpant... Thudthudpant...
The tendon fibers flex and stretch - pulling, pulling, harder and harder, trying to maintain
the elasticity demanded by an increased workload.
Things aren't going well though - everything is gummed up with scar tissue. Some of the
fibers need to stretch to their entire length. Others only give a little bit. The tendon starts
to creak as the scar tissue is pulled this way and that, stretching, stretching, coming closer
and closer to the breaking point...
Thudthudpant... Thudthudpant...
Thudthudpant... Thudthudpant...
"Well, HEEEEYY!!" Fladd thinks to himself as he jumps off the sidewalk to avoid a
poodle, then hops quickly back up on the curb. "Looking goood...!"
Thudthudpant... Thudthudpant...
Thudthudpant... Thudthudpant...
!!!!!! SNAP !!!!!
"Aaargh!!"
A blinding, white-hot flash of pain, accompanied by an ominous flopping, thrashing
sensation just above the right heel.
"Aaargh!!" Fladd repeats, "aaargh, aaaargh!"
At this point, he is about 15 miles into his run and roughly two miles from home. Gritting
his teeth, he turns around and starts to limp home, melodramatically dragging his leg
behind him like some twisted parody of the Elephant Man.
Plop, drag, gasp.....plop, drag, gasp....
Plop, drag....SLIP - WHAM!!! He falls on the ice and lies staring at the sky, snowflakes
mingling with his tears.
"Uh-oh," he thinks, to himself, stating the obvious, "THIS isn't good..."
Medical diagnosis is not an exact science. Different medical authorities can and do argue
vehemently over almost any type of physical trauma. If you walked into three different
emergency rooms carrying your severed left arm, you might get as many as 4 different
diagnoses as to the nature and treatment of your particular injury - perhaps more,
depending on your HMO. There is no injury so clear-cut and obvious that everyone can
agree on it.
Except one.
As one of Keene's army of the uninsured, Fladd is forced to rely on his own resources to
diagnose and treat his injury. He consults 4 different medical and exercise physiology
textbooks and comes up with one indisputable diagnosis; he is suffering from something
called Achilles Tendinitis. (That, in itself, is a bit of a disappointment. He had
hoped that it would be something manly-sounding - Navy Seal Syndrome, perhaps,
or Advanced, Testosterone-Induced, Skeletal-Muscular Trauma.)
Each reference mentions the exact same symptoms - a swelling of the ankle just above the
heel, a leather-like creaking of the tendon or crepitus when the foot is flexed and
inconsistent but mind-numbing agony. They differ on treatments - "Ice it to reduce the
swelling", "Heat it to increase the circulation", "Massage it to break up the scar tissue" - but
they all agree on one aspect:
"NO RUNNING FOR AT LEAST 6 TO 8 WEEKS!!"
"Oh, come on...," Fladd thinks to himself as he reads. "They can't be serious. How about
just a little running?"
"NO!," the sources thunder back. "NO RUNNING FOR 6 TO 8 WEEKS! NO
RUNNING, NO HOPPING, NO SKIPPING, NO JUMPING - NO WEIGHT-BEARING
ACTIVITY OF ANY KIND!!!"
By the time 6 to 8 weeks have passed, Fladd will have missed the last qualifier for the
Boston Marathon. He is out for the season.
Damn.
"That's really rough!", Reese says, putting his hand on Fladd's shoulder. "I'm really, really
sorry. I wanted us to run in Boston together. Oh well - hang tough! I'll be thinking of you
when I'm running up Heartbreak Hill! I'll be strong and run for BOTH of us," he says, his
voice throbbing with nobility.
He then sits down, opens a beer and doesn't run for the rest of the winter.
