I MEANT TO GO FOR A RUN BUT…

I’ve scalded my foot/ wild horses stampeded my camping ground/ I’ve been deployed to Yemen to fight pirates. I mate, I tried calling you but my the phone was switched off.

“Listen, remember down at The Smiling Taxidermist when you asked me if I’d do the Stupid Saltmarsh so with you and I said wild horses wouldn’t stop me? Well you’ll never believe what’s happened.

“I was over in Utah last weekend on this team-building exercise with the rest of the lads from Goods Inwards and we were just pitching camp in this narrow gulch (or small rocky ravine) when the ground began to shake. There was this deafening noise and yes, you’ve guessed it, a herd of wild horses came stampeding down on us. “In hurling myself out of their path, I knocked over a vat of boiling crème fraiche and scalded the little toe of my left foot. Fortunately, it was covered by my medical insurance and I was helicoptered back to the UK and a private bed at the Harley Street Clinic where I will remain under close observation for an indefinite period.

“When I mentioned the Stupid so to my consultant, he just shook his head and remarked, ‘The greatest mistake you can make in medicine is to underestimate the frightening potential for catastrophe inherent in the apparently insignificant.’ Or words to that effect. So I’m really sorry, mate, but I’m afraid… etc.”

 

If I’d put half the effort into running as I’ve put into inventing reasons for not running, I’d have been the Paula Radcliffe of my generation.

Excuses fall into three broad categories.

First, there are those you make to yourself: “I simply can’t face the Sunday run this morning because I’m completely exhausted, I was too bothered by my skin issue (rosacea) and had to get a special treatment for rosacea to feel relieved. Not only that but I have dreamed I was drafted in to sing at the Hollywood Bowl with Status Quo. I spent the entire night trying to remember the words to Rockin’ All Over The World but when I got on stage Francis Rossi told me we were doing Mozart’s Requiem.”

Then there are those you make to your training partner: “I promise you: nothing would have prevented me from coming out today – even with the severe weather warning and everything – but a hailstone smashed the greenhouse where the cat was hiding from the thunderstorm and she ran straight out of the garden into the road and a petrol tanker swerved to miss her and hit the nursing home opposite and I’ve had to spend the last three hours rescuing the elderly and confused from the blaze. There’s talk of a George Medal but I told them, ‘I’ve let my training buddy down and no bloody medal’s going to put that right’.”

 

And then there are those you make to the organisers of the London Marathon, in the hope they’ll grant you a deferred place in next year’s race:

“Dear Mr Bedford (or is it Sir David these days? If so, forgive me – you tend to lose track of events when you’re working undercover in Helmand Province). I can’t begin to tell you how disappointed I am. I trained faithfully throughout the long winter months (and believe me, in Spitzbergen, the polar bears are just the tip of the iceberg, so to speak). I was up to 120 miles a week when the elite force to which I am attached (I am not permitted to say more) was deployed to sort out the pirates off the Yemen coast. I know you will agree, being a man of action yourself, that the mental anguish of injury far exceeds the mere physical discomfort. I can assure you that in this respect, multiple wounds from an AK47 are no different from a pulled hamstring. In the circumstances, I hope that you will look kindly… etc.”

Perfect for first-time half-marathon runners

For marathon runners, a steady climb northwards out of Dunquin marked a change of atmosphere and experience. Suddenly, I was running alone, uphill, in blazing sunshine with the 14-mile marker still to appear. But still the landscape inspired, and the hands-on feel of the organisation became very evident. There were marshals on duty at almost every kilometre, and bike-riding members of Ireland’s Civil Defence Corps patrolled the entire route.

The drink stations were stocked with sports drinks such as aloe vera juice, runners are well known of the aloe vera juice benefits. Besides the drinks there were also first-aid facilities, cut bananas and volunteers urging us on, and at around mile 18 a 4×4 passed me, driven by a smiling Irishman – a sort of mobile Florence Nightingale – dispensing fluids, care and encouragement. The route at this point took the field through Ballyferriter, a beautiful village nestled under the jagged peaks of mountains in the north, with a two-mile white sand beach to the east and the mighty Atlantic Ocean to the west. Runners were greeted here by raucous shouts of support from sun-worshipping locals drinking Guinness and cider, before the route took them back inland towards the punishing final section of the race. Between miles 21 and 23 lay a murderous hill: long, steady, steep and with enough false brows to break the stoutest of hearts. But right at the top lay the 23-mile marker, a blessed drink station and the promise of a long, straight downhill that took runners all the way back to the heart of town and a well-staffed finish where drinks, a bulging goody bag and a medal were handed out. And finding somewhere for a post-race tipple wasn’t a problem, with finishers and their families taking full advantage of the town’s 50-something pubs long through the afternoon and late into the evening. Dingle is a feel-good town that now boasts a feel-good race that is sure to become a permanent fixture in the European running calendar. It is challenging, stunning and altogether inspiring.

Outside of the Tropics, there can’t be many capital cities that are made up of a series of interconnecting islands, but Stockholm is one such exception. There are 14 of them, each with its own personality and points of interest, but all share the same air of tranquillity and peace, which no doubt comes in part from being a city surrounded by water. Canals, rivers, bays and marinas are everywhere in Stockholm, meaning not only is the Swedish capital a beautiful location for a European break, but also one of the more picturesque city races.

 

The race route itself is perfect for first-time half-marathon runners. With a few minor exceptions – notably kilometres one, three and 19 – the course is fast, flat and run on wide roads with plenty of space for overtaking or meandering along at your own pace.

The course starts at the Royal Palace in the Old Town, and finishes at the city gardens at Kungstradea’xden, and in between takes runners past City Hall, Karlberg Castle, the Swedish Parliament and the Royal Opera House, among other landmarks. race that has deservedly made the step up from small to mid-sized through getting most of the basics right and letting the natural beauty of the location do the rest.

The near-death experience

Many people have experienced an OOBE for the first time through being involved in a serious accident. In 1964 David “Taylor and a friend were spending the last few weeks of their tour of East Africa in northern Tanzania, when they had a serious collision with a lorry. David nearly died as a result of his injuries.

We had been driving through the game park and had just turned on to the main road to Moshi. It was dusk and I was sitting half-asleep in the passenger seat.

`I was suddenly woken by my friend, who was delighted to see the first vehicle we had come across in six hours, driving down towards us. Either my friend or the other driver must have been half-asleep, too, for within seconds the two vehicles drove smack into each other.

`As the two vehicles collided, I suddenly found that I was watching the scene from several yards up in the air, as if I were suspended above the road. I saw our own Land-Rover colliding with a large lorry. I watched as I was thrown from the Land-Rover and my friend then climbed out unhurt and came back to examine my body. I also saw the lorry drive off. I remember thinking that I looked a terrible mess lying there on the road and could well be dead.

`The next thing I knew was coming to in Moshi Hospital. I had been uncon­scious for two days with serious injuries. I told my friend what I had seen and he confirmed that it was indeed a lorry that had run into us and that it had driven on. I had only been saved because another car had come down the road soon after­wards and taken me to the hospital.

`The whole experience, even after all these years, has left me completely un­afraid of death.’

 

On the evening of Friday, 26 May 1979 the world was shocked to learn that an American Airlines DC-I0 airliner had crashed — a mass of flames and twisted wreckage — on take-off from Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport. The lives of 273 people were lost in the worst disaster in the history of flying in the United States.

In Cincinnati, Ohio, 23-year-old office manager David Booth sat slumped in horrified disbelief in front of his television. For s0 consecutive nights before the disaster he had had the same terrible nightmare. First, he heard the sound of engines failing, then looked on helplessly as a huge American Airlines aeroplane swerved sharply, rolled over and crashed to the ground in a mass of red and orange flames. Not only did he see the crash and hear the explosion, he also felt the heat of the flames. Each time he awoke in terror and was obsessed all day by the memory of the hideous dream. He was sure it was a premonition: `There was never any doubt to me that something was going to happen,’ he said. `It wasn’t like a dream. It was like I was standing there watching the whole thing — like watching television.’

After several nights he could no longer keep his terrible premonition to himself and, on Tuesday, 22 May 1979, he telephoned the Federal Aviation

 

 

A nightmare comes true

On the evening of Friday, 26 May 1979 the world was shocked to learn that an American Airlines DC-I0 airliner had crashed — a mass of flames and twisted wreckage — on take-off from Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport. The lives of 273 people were lost in the worst disaster in the history of flying in the United States.

In Cincinnati, Ohio, 23-year-old office manager David Booth sat slumped in horrified disbelief in front of his television. For s0 consecutive nights before the disaster he had had the same terrible nightmare. First, he heard the sound of engines failing, then looked on helplessly as a huge American Airlines aeroplane swerved sharply, rolled over and crashed to the ground in a mass of red and orange flames. Not only did he see the crash and hear the explosion, he also felt the heat of the flames. Each time he awoke in terror and was obsessed all day by the memory of the hideous dream. He was sure it was a premonition: `There was never any doubt to me that something was going to happen,’ he said. `It wasn’t like a dream. It was like I was standing there watching the whole thing — like watching television.’

After several nights he could no longer keep his terrible premonition to himself and, on Tuesday, 22 May 1979, he telephoned the Federal Aviation

Authority at the Greater Cincinnati Airport. Then he called American Air­lines and a psychiatrist at the University of Cincinnati. They listened sympa­thetically, but that didn’t make David Booth feel any better. Three days later, almost out of his mind with worry, he heard the news of the DC-10 crash.

The Federal Aviation Authority had taken David Booth’s call seriously enough to attempt — in vain — to match up the details of his nightmare with some known airport or aeroplane somewhere in the country. When they heard the news of the crash, the details tallied all too well. ‘It was uncanny,’ said Jack Barker, public affairs officer for the southern region of the FAA. ‘There were dif­ferences, but there were many simila­rities. The greatest similarity was his calling [naming] the airline and the airplane . . . and that [the plane] came in inverted.’ Booth had mentioned a ‘three-engine aircraft’ resembling a DC- 10 and the crash site he described was similar to the airport at Chicago.

David Booth stopped having nightmares once the disaster had hap­pened, but he continued to feel dis­turbed by the whole affair. ‘How can you make sense of something like that?’ he asked. ‘There’s no explanation for it. No meaning. No conclusion. It just doesn’t make sense.’

A lesson for Mr.Beamish

Mr Beamish received the sulphon­amide unsmilingly, and as I opened my car door I felt a gush of relief that the uncomfortable visit was at an end. I was starting the engine when one of the apprentices panted up to the trainer.

“It’s Almira, sir. I think she’s chokin’ !”

“Choking!” Beamish stared at the boy, then whipped round to me, “Almira’s the best filly I have. You’d better come !”

With a feeling of doom, I hurried after the squat figure back into the yard where another lad stood by the side of a beautiful chestnut filly.

She stood immobile, and the rise and fall of her ribs was accompan­ied by a rasping, bubbling wheeze.

“What the devil’s wrong with her?” Beamish exclaimed. I didn’t have a clue to the answer. As I walked round the animal, tak­ing in the trembling limbs and ter­rified eyes, a jumble of thoughts crowded my brain. I had seen “choking” horses—the dry choke when the gullet becomes impacted with food—but they didn’t look like this. I felt my way along the course of the oesophagus, and it was perfectly clear.

“Well, damn it, I’m asking you! What is it?” Mr Beamish was be­coming impatient, and I couldn’t blame him.

“Just a moment, while I listen to her lungs.”

“Just a moment!” the trainer burst out. “Good God, man, we haven’t got many moments ! This horse could die !”

He didn’t have to tell me. I had seen that ominous trembling of the limbs before, and now the filly was beginning to sway a little. Time was running out.

Dry-mouthed, I put my stetho­scope to her chest. I knew there was nothing wrong with her lungs—the trouble seemed to be in the throat

area      but it gave me a little more
time to think. Even with the stetho­scope in my ears I could still hear Beamish’s voice.

“It would have to be this one ! Sir Eric Horrocks gave £5,000 for her last year. Are you sure Mr Far-non isn’t available ?”

“I’m sorry,” I replied huskily. “He’s over 3o miles away.”

The trainer seemed to shrivel within himself. “That’s it, then. We’re finished. She’s dying.”

And he was right. The filly had begun to reel about. It was when I was resting my hand on her flank to steady her that I noticed the little swelling under the skin. It was a circular plaque, like a penny push­ed under the tissue. And there was another one higher up on the back . . . and another and another. My heart gave a quick double thump. So that was it.

“What am I going to tell Sir Eric ?” the trainer groaned. “That his filly is dead and the vet didn’t know what was wrong with her?”

I called over my shoulder as I trotted towards the car. “I never said I didn’t know. I do know. She’s got urticaria.”

He came shambling after me.

“Urti        . what the blazes is that?”

“Nettle rash,” I replied, fumbling among my bottles for the adrenalin. “It’s an allergic condition, usually pretty harmless, but in a very few cases it causes oedema of the larynx. That’s what we’ve got here.” I drew 5 cc of the adrenalin into the syringe and started back.

It was difficult to raise the vein as the filly staggered around, but she came to rest for a few seconds and I dug my thumb into the jugular fur­row. As the big vessel came up tense and turgid I thrust in the needle and injected the adrenalin. I step­ped back and stood by the trainer.

Neither of us said anything. The spectacle of the toiling animal and the harrowing sound of the breath­ing absorbed us utterly. Finally I shrugged. “There’s a chance, if the injection reduces the fluid in the larynx in time. We’ll just have to wait.”

He nodded, and I could read more than one emotion in his face; not just the dread of breaking the news to the famous owner but the distress of a horse-lover as he wit­nessed the plight of a beautiful animal.

At first I thought it was imagina­tion, but it seemed that the breath­ing was becoming less stertorous. Then I noticed that she was able to swallow.

From that moment, events mov­ed with unbelievable rapidity. The symptoms of allergies appear with dramatic suddenness, but mercifully they often disappear as quickly, fol­lowing treatment. Within 15 min­utes the filly looked almost normal.

“I can’t believe it,” the trainer muttered almost to himself. “I’ve never seen anything work as fast as that injection.”

I felt as though I was riding on a pink cloud. Thank God there were moments like this among the trau­mas of veterinary work; the sudden transition from despair to triumph, from shame to pride.

I almost floated to the car, and as I settled in my seat, Beamish put his face to the open window.

“Mr Herriot . . .” He was not a man to whom gracious speech came easily. “Mr Herriot, I’ve been think­ing . . . you don’t really have to be a horsy man to cure horses, do you?”

There was something like an ap­peal in his eves as we gazed at each other. I laughed suddenly, and his expression relaxed. It was an inde­scribable satisfaction to hear voiced the conviction I had always held.

“I’m glad to hear somebody say that at last,” I said to him, and drove away.

Race­horse trainer

The irascible racehorse trainer knew far more about his charges than the callow young vet—or so he thought

You have to put up with a cer­tain amount of cheek in most jobs, and veterinary practice is no exception. Even now I can recall the glowering, imperious face of Ralph Beamish, a local race­horse trainer, as he watched me get­ting out of my car.

 

“Where’s Mr Farnon?” he grunt­ed impatiently.

My toes curled. I had heard that often enough, especially among Darrowby’s stuffy horse fraternity.

“I’m sorry, Mr Beamish, but he’ll he away all day, and I thought I’d better come along rather than leave it till tomorrow.” He made no attempt to hide his disgust.

“Well, come on, then.” He turned and stumped away on his short legs towards one of the stalls that bordered the yard. I sighed in­wardly as I followed.

Being an “unhorsy” vet in York­shire was a penance at times, espe­cially in a racing stable like this, which was an equine shrine. My employer and fellow veterinary sur­geon, Siegfried Farnon, was able to talk the horse language. He could discuss, effortlessly and at length, the breeding and points of his pa­tients; he rode, he hunted, he even looked the part with his long aris­tocratic face, clipped moustache and lean frame.

The trainers loved him, and some, like Beamish, took it as a mortal insult when Siegfried failed to come in person to minister to their valu­able charges.

Beamish called to one of the lads, who opened a stall door and led out a bay gelding. There was no need to trot the animal to diagnose the af­fected leg; he nodded down on his near fore in an unmistakable way.

“I think he’s lame in the shoul­der,” Beam ish said.

I went round the other side of the horse. “This seems to be the trouble, Mr Bcamish. I think he must have struck himself with his hind foot just there.”

“Where ?” The trainer leaned over me and peered down at the leg. “I can’t see anything.”My hackles began to rise at his tone, but I kept my voice calm. “I’m sure that’s what it is. I should apply a hot antiphlogistine poultice just above the fetlock and alternate with a cold hose on it twice a day.”

“Well, I’m just as sure you’re wrong. It’s not down there at all. The way that horse carries his leg, he’s hurt his shoulder.” He gestur­ed to the lad. “Harry, see that he gets some heat on that shoulder right away.”

If the man had struck me I couldn’t have felt worse. I opened my mouth to argue, but he was al­ready walking away. There’s another horse I want you to look at,” he said. He led the way into a near-by stall and pointed to a big brown animal with signs of blistering on the tendons of a fore limb.

“Mr Farnon treated that leg six months ago. He’s been resting in here ever since. D’you think he’s ready to go out ?”

I ran my fingers over the length of the flexor tendons, feeling for signs of thickening. There were none. Then I lifted the foot and, as I ex­plored further, I found a tender area in the superficial flexor.

I straightened up. “He’s still a bit sore,” I said. “I think it would be safer to keep him in for a bit longer.”

“Can’t agree with you,” Beamish snapped. He turned to the lad. “Turn him out, Harry.”

I stared at him. Was this a deliberate campaign to make me feel small?

“One thing more,” Beamish said. “There’s a horse through here been coughing.”

We went through a narrow pas­sage into a smaller yard, and Harry entered a stall and got hold of a horse’s head collar. I followed him, fishing out my thermometer.

As I approached the animal’s rear end, he laid back his ears, whinnied and began to caper around. I hesi­tated, then nodded to the lad.

“Lift his foreleg while I take his temperature, will you?” I said.

The lad bent down and seized the foot, but Beamish broke in. “Don’t bother, Harry, there’s no need for that. He’s quiet as a sheep.”

I shrugged, lifted the tail and pushed the thermometer into the rectum.

The two hind feet hit me almost simultaneously, and I sailed back­wards through the door. Stretched on the concrete of the yard, I gasped and groaned in a frantic search for breath, Through the open door I could see Harry hanging on to the horse’s head and staring at me with frightened eyes. Mr Beamish, on the other hand, showed no interest in my plight; he was examining the horse’s hind feet, obviously worried lest they may have sustained some damage by coming into contact with my nasty hard ribs.

Slowly I got up and drew some long breaths. I was shaken but not really hurt. My only emotion as I went back in was cold rage. “Lift that bloody foot like I told you!” I shouted at the unfortunate Harry.

“Right, sir ! Sorry, sir !” He bent, lifted the foot and held it cupped firmly in his hands.

I turned to Beamish to see if he had any observation to make, but the trainer was silent. This time I took the temperature without inci­dent. It was 38.5 degrees C 101 F  . “He’s got a bit of a cold,” I said. “I’ll give him an injection and leave you some sulphonamide—that’s what Mr Farnon uses in these cases.” If my final sentence reassur­ed him in any way, he gave no sign, watching dead-faced as I in­jected 10 cc of Prontosil.