By mid-afternoon, Ralph’s Honda-mometer had registered a high of 103. (I have no idea of the heat index, as that option was not offered on an’06 Ridgeline.) Suffice it to say that even by South Florida standards, it was a less than perfect day for an 8K. Sometimes, however, in very special cases, what makes sense most of the time is overruled for a very, very good reason, i.e., it was a preview for a more important meet to follow. That was deadly decision #1.
If pooled, no doubt some of the former occupants of Gulf Coast Center—since renamed—would have whole-heartedly agreed to hold an August all-out cross country race, in the afternoon, in, arguably, the hottest part of the state. In my mind’s eye, I could see them lining the course, comfortable in their camp chairs and sipping ice-filled cups of sweet tea, while holding one of those little battery-powered fans up to their face. Unfortunately, the facility’s temporary occupants—yours truly among them—were eager to replace an off-beat speculation with the reality of an eager anticipation. That was deadly decision #2.
It began at 6:00 PM, and as the footrace unfolded, a curious reshuffling of the expected order of finish was occurring. I was at the finish line, taking photos of the survivors, who were coming past in various degrees of consciousness. For upwards of 40 years, I have done this at countless cross country and track meets. I can tell you, unequivocally, that photos tell many things. For example, who, what, when, where, and by how much. What they are incapable of projecting is why. (Which is my motive for adding word images to my digital images.) At this particular meet, my photos seemed to indicate that—for the most part--faster, many more talented runners had traded positions with those whose pace was far more economical. So, by the end of the race, “where’s such and such?” became an oft-spoken refrain. Despite this obvious warning that something was amiss, when the finish of my favorite runner did not arrive when expected, I continued to take photos. Deadly decision #3.
29 minutes into the race, I heard a muted musical tone from deep in my pocket, and juggled a cell phone to my right ear, while trying to continue taking photos by peering through my left eye (easier said than done). Never one to disappoint, I wanted to get every last runner. (I have my favorites, but I consider every athlete special.) Through the tiny ear-piece I heard: “(Favorite runner) fainted near the four mile mark.” Thinking “Fainted?” and “That’s a mile away, I don’t know where, and I am not as spry as when I was out there myself. I’d never get there in time to help.” I reasoned that any member of the blue-shirted, golf-carted sports medicine team would get there long before I could. Deadly decision #4, because blue is a common color at cross country meets, and I couldn’t ascertain if they were headed to the stricken athlete.
Not long after, I received a second (third?) call: “Mr. Epifanio, you are needed here. We’re sending a vehicle to pick you up.” It was at that point that two things became crystal clear: (a) this was not a tired runner who just sat down under a tree; and (b) if I was being called, perhaps the first aid people weren’t there. (Deadly decision #5?) My camera went into standby mode, and I turned to the hydration table just beyond, and to the left of the finish line—as I said, there were blue shirts everywhere—and shouted: “Runner down near mile four; send sports med right away.” On my third try, one of the blue shirts heard me, started looking in a direction other than the finish line, and moved perpendicular to the far side of the chute. But, I wondered, was it a blue-shirted sports-med person, or a blue-shirted college student assigned to dispensing cups of water?
It was easy to find my ride. I just flagged down the first golf cart flying by at interstate highway speed. My signature hat did the trick. (As well as serving as a shade for the sun, it makes a great attention-getter.) The cart screeched to a halt, and I traded places with the individual in its passenger seat. The expression on her face told me half the story, the rest played out when we got to the runner. I took in the scene before me, and tried to sort out the macabre drama unfolding under a big tree. Half a dozen people, “accessorized” in mud, were trying to bring aid and comfort to the fallen athlete, who was obviously “somewhere else.” When a victim is delirious, in addition to him not knowing where he is, he also isn’t convinced you’re trying to help. While he tried to escape everyone’s best intentions, his “Nooooooo!” came loud and clear. What little water there was at the scene had been inadequate to quench the fire burning him up from inside. His core temperature—and I’m extrapolating this from the 103 degree temperature that was later recorded in an ambulance—was probably approaching 105. Deadly decision #6 could be summarized by: “to splash, or to drink; that is the question.”
Time was running out, and running out pretty fast was my guess. After taking in the scene (step #1 in first aid training), my time ran out before I could dial 911 (step #2 in first aid). I dove into the fray. Deadly decision #7? I don’t know, but three separate and different near-suffocations later, I decided that what was happening was waaaay beyond the training of anyone present, and I definitely speak for myself. I asked, “Has anyone called 911?” Silence.* So, I did. But the emergency dispatcher who answered my call must have thought I was as hysterical as the young man who, in his delirium, seemed to be unraveling in ways that made no sense. I had become wedged into that place that no one administering first aid should occupy; aiding an individual with whom you are personally acquainted.
Although I am told that only minutes separated the call(s) and the arrival of EMTs, I can tell you that all minutes are not the same. (Thus the difference between an 800, and an 8K.) Besides my own conclusions while observing his rapid retreat from mens sana in corpore sano (a sound mind in a sound body), I was told that this young man nearly died during his 85 MPH ride to Lee Memorial Hospital. Not only you can “die during a race,” but you can also die because of a race. Consider the following:
(1) We were all excited about the race, and showed it, not only by our pep talks to the meet’s participants, but through comments like “Be sure to adequately hydrate,” cheering, clapping hands, and so forth. But who among us had the courage to say, “Hey dude, it’s like 95 out there. We shouldn’t be running five miles. Half would be enough.” (Wanna bet the same guy[s] would have won?)
(2) In addition to cups of water at the finish line—not much use when you don’t make it that far—why not water tables on the course? And how about sprinklers along the course, volunteers with hoses, and as many wet towels as runners? Does the NCAA allow these precautionary methods? College sports’ governing body has become more and more intrusive of its athletes’ personal lives, from big-school quarterbacks to eight minute milers. For example, it wants to know what cold medication you use, if anyone has bought you lunch, when you bought your car (who pays, and how much the insurance is), and other irrelevant and private inquiries. However, how thorough is its involvement in the safety of cross country runners in weather this hot? Does it even have a hot weather policy for situations like this? (Maybe so, but it obviously did not work this time out of the box.)
(3) We have mandatory, matching team uniforms, right? So do referees. So why is it that the most important team out there, the medical team, does not have mandatory, and easy to spot, uniforms for theirs? (Ashen or crimson faces do not count.)
(4) If (when?) an athlete has a life-threatening episode, shouldn’t the distance of EMTs and ambulances be measured in meters, instead of miles? (Your kid, your call.)
(5) Since cross country athletes are highly mobile, shouldn’t first aid be just as mobile? With runners sometimes a mile from the sports medicine tent, the first responder should arrive with everything necessary—including well-charged walkie-talkies, so everyone can hear inter-station communications and thus be “on board”—that might be needed. Seconds saved, and proper care could prevent paralysis, brain damage, and death.
It is my opinion that, in this case, no one was intentionally at fault, but everyone was complicit. Who among us is going to suggest to an adult—as college athletes are— not to run because it is too hot to do so? But then again, the subject in this case made it back to his family, shaken, but wiser. And in case you’re wondering, in addition to training hard all summer—he was in great shape—both his coach and parents taught and monitored this 19 year old about a proper diet, hydration, electrolyte intake, etc. His survival, however, was due purely to one simple twist of fate: his mother, who had driven five hours to the meet, was in the exact spot where he went down. She kept him alive long enough to start a chain of events that led to his survival.
We still can’t, definitively, explain why it happened. He has been competing, since age eight, in track, cross country, and road races—from a half mile to a half marathon. In previous years, he had competed in two collegiate races on approximately the same date, and at the same time of day, but at a little over half the distance, and in extreme northern (and cooler) Florida. This year, his summer-long conditioning program—which peaked in a two hour and fifteen minute long run, and consisted of road races of 5K, four miles, and a 10K in the weeks prior—defuses arguments against a lack of preparation. So racing in the heat might not have been unique, but this time it was much, much more of the same. It was hot, very hot, and at 5’4” and 121 pounds, perhaps his body couldn’t radiate as much heat as he was generating at his competitive running pace. Unfortunately, after literally a decade of races, the roll of the dice came up snake eyes. And if it happened to him, it could happen to anyone who runs a long race in very hot weather.
My suggestions? First, as the Fahrenheit goes up, the Kilometers should go down. The Men’s race coulda, shoulda been a 5K. (Plans can be changed.) Next, consider the Lake Brantley model mentioned in one of my previous articles. On meet days, they have water, water everywhere--you couldn’t avoid it if you tried--multiple, fully-equipped aid carts, easy to recognize first aid personnel, and observers who know the sport. And lastly, a simple request; if coaches were to tell their athletes: if you see anyone in trouble out there—whether up or down—inform the next group of spectators. They can investigate quickly, and probably have cell phones.
Heat plays no favorites, but this time it just might have. This kid was strong enough to survive, but the next one may not be. So whose warning was it? His, or the rest of us? Only time, and discretion, will tell.
*apparently more than one someone had called 9-1-1, but the responding units were still miles away
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