Friday, October 26, 2018

This is Halloween (with Type One)

It's cold outside. Colder than it was before the sun completed its journey, down below the line of mountains in the distance. There is a bite in the air, and as I take off on my run I see my breath come out in puffs.

As I get farther away from the warm glow of my house I touch my running belt compulsively, feeling for everything - gels, glucometer, pricker, test strips. It's all there. My finger tips are aching already and I haven't even made it to the lake. I feel my pace quicken.

Running in my town is different than I imagine road running in other places is - there are no 24/7 convenience stores, no stores at all actually, and I'm far more likely to see woodland creatures than other humans while on my journey. I think this increases my trepidation - I can't dash into a 7/11 and buy an apple juice if I under-pack. And as I make my way around the water in the stillness of the night, I start to wonder if anyone would see me if I went down. It's getting increasingly darker the further I go, under the hood of the trees with the woods edging up to the opposite side of the street. What animals come out at night? I can't remember.

As I approach one mile I've already decided I'm only going for two today - I'll loop around and turn back instead of completing the circle around the lake. I'm feeling the muscles in my back cramp up and thoroughly spooked by how poorly I can see. I wave my reader over my Libre sensor and am happy with the result - 146 - at first. But as I start into the second mile I feel a niggling in the pit of my stomach. Is the dark inhibiting my ability to feel my low? What about the cold?

I dig out my glucometer supplies and prick my finger as I run, a delicate skill I've learned to master. The number flashes on my meter - 76. The darkness acts as my friend then, hiding the annoyance on my face and bearing witness to the soft curses I whisper as I tear a gel open with my mouth. I toss the used test strip and methodically squeeze the gel into my mouth with my hands and teeth. When its done I cram the wrapper into my belt. I pick up speed. I'll sprint the rest of the way, I think, and this lasts about half a mile, until I feel the gel turning over in my stomach and the muscles seizing in my back. I slow my pace down again.

I feel the dark closing in on me, and I feel the urge to test again. Not until at least five minutes have passed. I reprimand myself and I keep running, fighting off thoughts of being too cold to feel my sugar dropping or of a feral raccoon surprising me in the darkness.

Finally the five minutes pass. I do my dance of testing while running again and feel simultaneously proud that I waited the full five minutes, and annoyed that I went low during my run. The number flashes - 89. I let out a loud sigh.

The lights from the beach come into view and I fall into an easy stride, trying to lower my heart rate and slow my breathing. I hit two miles and slow to a walk. My house is around the corner. I think of how we have no street lights here and how my friends in Bergen County find this terrifying.

When I make it through the front door I declare to my mother that I don't like running at night. She's thrilled. My sugar stays steady throughout dinnertime, and I tuck my fears away. Until next time.