in their words
“For when the One Great Scorer comes To mark against your name
He writes – not that you won or lost But how you played the Game.”
– from the 1908 poem “Alumnus Football” by Grantland Rice
THE AUTHO R IS A DUK E P RO F E SSO R OF ME DICINE A ND IMMUN OLOGY WH O
Cool Runnings
HAS LIVE D IN D URH A M S IN CE THE L AT E ’ 7 0 S .
B Y DAV I D S . P I S ET S KY, M.D., PH.D.
In his last column, Dr. Pisetsky shared his training regimen for the 200-meter and 5-meter dashes at the Durham Senior
Games, and the injuries of a hamstring pull and Achilles tendinitis that plagued him prior to the competition.
M
Y TWO EVENTS WERE scheduled for April 17 at Hillside High School; an unseasonably cold day, just above 40 degrees. But the sky was clear. I drove to the track where I saw men throwing a football and putting the shot. The stands were just about empty except for some well-wishers braving the frigid air. I signed in, collected my commemorative T-shirt and then sat in the stands waiting for the start of the running events. I fretted about getting too close to people since I was emitting a powerful combination of menthol and wintergreen from the generous blob of Bengay that I had slathered on my hamstring. I was the only person in shorts and wore a Duke Rheumatology T-shirt under my sweatshirt.
26
|
durhammag.com
|
september 2018
Waiting for the event to start, I felt part of Durham’s tradition of track and field. Both Duke and N.C. Central were led by coaching legends who were Hall of Famers. Al Buehler, a coach at Duke beginning in the 1950s, wore a wide-brim straw hat and served as coach and manager of the U.S. Olympic team. LeRoy Walker was the coach at Central and was the first African-American to be president of the United States Olympic Committee. They were friends and collaborators and as close as brothers at a time when black-white relations were often troubled. Together, Al and LeRoy made Durham a hot spot for track and field events. Durham was the site of the Pan Africa-USA track meeting in 1971 and the US-USSR meet in 1974. For that event, tens of thousands of people filled Wallace Wade Stadium to witness a Cold War contest of geopolitical and ideological import. At 10 a.m., everyone went to the starting line where the rules were explained. All ages would run together, meaning that someone 50 years old could be competing against someone who was 100. Given the number of entrants for the men’s 50 meter, we were divided into two heats. I watched the first heat intently. The men were amazingly fast, and the winner, I would have guessed, was in his 50s. As I learned later, he’s 69. My heat was next. Ready to give 110% effort, I put myself into the zone and leaned over to start. I waited as the woman with the bullhorn yelled in succession, “Take your mark, get set, go!” Then we all charged down the straightaway to the finish line. My first few steps were fine, but at about the 20-meter point, the hamstring went – a mean stab of a stiletto. I lurched and staggered. I did my best to avoid a fall, fearing the ignominy of landing flat on my face. Somehow I stayed upright and focused my attention on the finish line. Despite the pain, I pushed the last distance, completely oblivious of those running on either side. I walked over to the official in my lane and got my time. It was 9.62 seconds. In that time, Usain Bolt could run 100 meters.