[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
regular 2.5-mile run that I did three times a week. This summer I had cracked the eight-minute-per-
mile barrier. That is, I consistently ran the distance in 20 minutes or less. Now I know that Olympic
runners break the four-minute mile, and that marathoners maintain the five-minute mile indefinitely,
and a healthy young man can do a mile in six minutes. But for a 45-year-old science fiction writer,
running at noon through loose sand, over tree roots, uphill and down, keeping a wary eye out for
snakes and wild dogs while he swats at stinging deerflies and avoids sandspurs, eight minute miles are
just fine. It is the same velocity certain American presidents have been known to run, after all. It's
hard work; I weighed myself before and after, and discovered that I sweated off an even two pounds
per run. And I was still gaining. First run in June, with the outdoor temperature 90°, I completed the
course in 17:37, just seven seconds over a seven-minute-per-mile average. Few middle-aged, diabetic,
etc. people could match that, I think. I was at my very peak of physical fitness, and proud of it.
Ah, but has it not been said that pride goeth before a fall? Believe it! Partly at the behest of my
worrying wife, who feared I would keel over and die from heatstroke-she tends to concern herself
with such nonessentials-I extended my run to three full miles and slowed the pace, making the
workout easier. But instead the runs became more difficult, even when the heat was down on cloudy
days. I maintained my eight-minute miles, but raggedly. Yet I was not sick. Well, I had a little sore on
my left wrist that was sensitive to the touch, but that was probably an embedded splinter. Then my left
arm, near the inside shoulder, began to hurt as if I had pulled a small muscle-but the twinge didn't go
away. My chins became awkward, and my pushups sent a streak of pain through my arm. But these
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Click here to buy
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bruises happen.
Then the fever began. Now, I am wary of fevers. I take vitamin C to stop colds, and it works. Once
upon a time my nose dripped into my typewriter, which was annoying-one can imagine the grumbling
editor shaking out a damp page of manuscript-but that doesn't happen any more. One gram of C per
hour stops the faucet, and after a while the cold gives up in disgust and departs, no doubt seeking
some idiot who doesn't believe in C. But, for me, C does nothing for a fever-and this one shot up to
102°F. So I stopped the exercises, which was a relief at this stage, and saw my doctor. Turned out to
be a lymph infection, traveling down my arm from that wrist-lump to my armpit, aggravating the
lymph nodes along the way. Nothing serious. Some pills and rest, and in a week I was ready to
resume typing. For by this time, mid-July, I had completed my plodding first penciled draft of Viscous
and was well into the typed second draft, proceeding more or less on schedule.
My fever dropped, and I resumed exercises, at a cautious half-level-for one day. My fever shot up
again. The lump in my left armpit swelled to what seemed like half-tennis-ball size (though my
fevered imagination probably exaggerated it), and I could hardly use that arm at all. At night I was
unable to turn over, and changing clothing was pain. The doctor gave me much more powerful pills,
costing seventy-five cents each, and I had to take eight a day. No effect; the fever kept coming, rising
as high as 101°, and the swelling persisted. So he upped the ante, prescribing one-dollar pills. Nothing
worked. My family had to take over the chores I had done, while I slept and fevered.
Finally, in desperation, the doctor put me in the hospital. For three days I lay with an IV hooked to my
left hand, dripping sugarwater and penicillin (it burns!) and garamycin into my throbbing vein, while
nurses measured my every fluctuation of fever, appetite, and drop of urine. Still no effect; my fever
came and went at will, mocking the entire modern medical establishment, and my swelling remained
adamant.
I had, of course, a science fiction illness, undiagnosable, odd; and commonplace medications like
dollar pills and antibiotic fluids can hardly be expected to work on that. Now if they'd had something
futuristic, like Venusian orb-grackle juice...
Actually the hospital was not a bad place. They allowed my children to visit me, and found me a
roommate with a vaguely similar ailment-his was blood poisoning from a thorn-and the personnel
were competent and friendly. They did not wake me up to give me a sleeping pill. I passed out copies
of my novels. My vegetarian and low-sugar diet brought the head dietician to my bedside, so that I [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl chiara76.opx.pl
regular 2.5-mile run that I did three times a week. This summer I had cracked the eight-minute-per-
mile barrier. That is, I consistently ran the distance in 20 minutes or less. Now I know that Olympic
runners break the four-minute mile, and that marathoners maintain the five-minute mile indefinitely,
and a healthy young man can do a mile in six minutes. But for a 45-year-old science fiction writer,
running at noon through loose sand, over tree roots, uphill and down, keeping a wary eye out for
snakes and wild dogs while he swats at stinging deerflies and avoids sandspurs, eight minute miles are
just fine. It is the same velocity certain American presidents have been known to run, after all. It's
hard work; I weighed myself before and after, and discovered that I sweated off an even two pounds
per run. And I was still gaining. First run in June, with the outdoor temperature 90°, I completed the
course in 17:37, just seven seconds over a seven-minute-per-mile average. Few middle-aged, diabetic,
etc. people could match that, I think. I was at my very peak of physical fitness, and proud of it.
Ah, but has it not been said that pride goeth before a fall? Believe it! Partly at the behest of my
worrying wife, who feared I would keel over and die from heatstroke-she tends to concern herself
with such nonessentials-I extended my run to three full miles and slowed the pace, making the
workout easier. But instead the runs became more difficult, even when the heat was down on cloudy
days. I maintained my eight-minute miles, but raggedly. Yet I was not sick. Well, I had a little sore on
my left wrist that was sensitive to the touch, but that was probably an embedded splinter. Then my left
arm, near the inside shoulder, began to hurt as if I had pulled a small muscle-but the twinge didn't go
away. My chins became awkward, and my pushups sent a streak of pain through my arm. But these
a
a
T
T
n
n
s
s
F
F
f
f
o
o
D
D
r
r
P
P
m
m
Y
Y
e
e
Y
Y
r
r
B
B
2
2
.
.
B
B
A
A
Click here to buy
Click here to buy
w
w
m
m
w
w
o
o
w
w
c
c
.
.
.
.
A
A
Y
Y
B
B
Y
Y
B
B
r r
bruises happen.
Then the fever began. Now, I am wary of fevers. I take vitamin C to stop colds, and it works. Once
upon a time my nose dripped into my typewriter, which was annoying-one can imagine the grumbling
editor shaking out a damp page of manuscript-but that doesn't happen any more. One gram of C per
hour stops the faucet, and after a while the cold gives up in disgust and departs, no doubt seeking
some idiot who doesn't believe in C. But, for me, C does nothing for a fever-and this one shot up to
102°F. So I stopped the exercises, which was a relief at this stage, and saw my doctor. Turned out to
be a lymph infection, traveling down my arm from that wrist-lump to my armpit, aggravating the
lymph nodes along the way. Nothing serious. Some pills and rest, and in a week I was ready to
resume typing. For by this time, mid-July, I had completed my plodding first penciled draft of Viscous
and was well into the typed second draft, proceeding more or less on schedule.
My fever dropped, and I resumed exercises, at a cautious half-level-for one day. My fever shot up
again. The lump in my left armpit swelled to what seemed like half-tennis-ball size (though my
fevered imagination probably exaggerated it), and I could hardly use that arm at all. At night I was
unable to turn over, and changing clothing was pain. The doctor gave me much more powerful pills,
costing seventy-five cents each, and I had to take eight a day. No effect; the fever kept coming, rising
as high as 101°, and the swelling persisted. So he upped the ante, prescribing one-dollar pills. Nothing
worked. My family had to take over the chores I had done, while I slept and fevered.
Finally, in desperation, the doctor put me in the hospital. For three days I lay with an IV hooked to my
left hand, dripping sugarwater and penicillin (it burns!) and garamycin into my throbbing vein, while
nurses measured my every fluctuation of fever, appetite, and drop of urine. Still no effect; my fever
came and went at will, mocking the entire modern medical establishment, and my swelling remained
adamant.
I had, of course, a science fiction illness, undiagnosable, odd; and commonplace medications like
dollar pills and antibiotic fluids can hardly be expected to work on that. Now if they'd had something
futuristic, like Venusian orb-grackle juice...
Actually the hospital was not a bad place. They allowed my children to visit me, and found me a
roommate with a vaguely similar ailment-his was blood poisoning from a thorn-and the personnel
were competent and friendly. They did not wake me up to give me a sleeping pill. I passed out copies
of my novels. My vegetarian and low-sugar diet brought the head dietician to my bedside, so that I [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]