When I was 7 a dog chased me across town trying to get a nibble
of my wee, ripe bottom. He didn’t catch me, but that’s
not the point. I loathed running then, and I still do. In
fact, I live my life according to one simple rule: Only run
when chased. So imagine my surprise – and utter disgust
– when a co-worker of mine suggested I run in a relay
race at the upcoming company picnic.
At first I told her she was out of her mind. Then I said I’d
think it over. In the end, against all better judgment, I
agreed. After all, it was a team building event, and I didn’t
want to offend any of my Korean co-workers.
Thinking back on it now, I should’ve held my ground
and told them to piss up a tree.
So there I am.
Standing At the starting line, waiting for a co-worker to
pass the baton. She rounds the final corner and sprints towards
me. A quick look at the Han River and I get ready. Here goes
nothing. She’s getting closer. It’s almost time.
I feel the baton hit my hand, and I’m off.
My first two strides are long and graceful. I’m a graceful
gazelle out for a midday romp. The third step sends daggers
shooting up my left leg. Muscles stretch and tendons grind.
Tears fill my eyes and I have a decision to make.
Do I pull up lame like some wretched old horse, or keep going?
My body says stop, but my pride says run like you’ve
stolen something. Being the egotistical schmuck I am, of course
I keep running. Bad idea.
With every step the pain shoots and spreads. My leg swells
as the daggers twist and turn. I may be lame and in pain,
but I’m fast. I guess years of running from police have
taught me something after all. Down the homestretch I pass
the guy in front of me. I hand off the baton and collapse.
I want to cry, but there are too many people around.
Somehow I hold back the tears and hobble to a grassy area
away from the activities. I lie there in agony and wait.
I wait for the picnic to end, and an imminent trip to a doctor’s
office to begin.
That’s where the fun starts.
I’m in Apkujung now, entering an oriental clinic. With
each step I groan and swear like a drunken longshoreman.
My co-worker Ted is with me. He helps me through the doors
and into a seat, but not before I bang my leg on a table in
the lobby and scream like bloody banshee.
The clinic is clean and well lit. The girls at the reception
desk are cute, in a woman-in-uniform kind of way. I take a
few deep breaths and try to relax. My heart is racing like
crazy.
Now, there’s something I haven’t told you…something
I’m terribly ashamed to admit.
I’m deathly afraid of needles. If there's anything I
hate more than running, it's needles. There’s something
about having long, metallic pins rammed into my flesh that
gives me the heebie-jeebies. The size of the needle doesn’t
matter. One glance at a sharp, glistening tip, and I’m
jelly.
I try to tell Ted about this, but it’s no use. You see,
Ted doesn’t have what one would call a ‘firm grasp’
on the English language. So we play a little game of charades
instead. With strained and jerky motions, I try to tell him
that all I need is an ice pack, a couple of Tylenol 3’s
and a good bottle of whiskey. Problem solved.
Ted laughs and nods, but somehow I think he misses the point.
Jump to five minutes later.
I’m lying on a maroon bed with a white-knuckled grip
on the beak of my baseball cap. A doctor is kneading my left
quadriceps furiously, like a crazed baker. With every twist
& turn, a stream of unintelligible curse words pour out
of my mouth, punctuated by “OH SWEET MARY MOTHER OF
JESUS WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?!”
At this point, I think it can’t get any worse. My leg
is killing me, a sadistic doctor is churning my muscles into
flaming lard, and amputation is looking like a welcome alternative.
Then I see the needles.
“PLEASE.
IN THE NAME OF ALL THINGS SACRED AND HOLY…DON’T
DO IT!”
I fling my arms over my face and dig my nails, hard, into
my ears. Tears stream from my eyes. You don’t have to
be Nostradamus to figure out what happens next.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHGGGGGGGGGGGG!”
The first one punctures and sticks. I don’t dare look.
I know there are more to come.
“OH YOU SON OF A FISH MONGERING (expletive)!”
Two down, only sixteen more to go.
As each needle pierces my skin, I express my displeasure with
a string of insults that would make a coal miner proud. I’m
a full-blown wimp. I know it; the doctor knows it; heck! I
bet even the girls at the front desk know by now.
As the last one enters I feel as though I’m about to
puke or pass out – or both.
Next comes electroshock therapy. The needles are hooked up
to wires which, in turn, are hooked up to a little grey box
that emits a pulsating electric current deep into fabric of
my leg. A red light is placed directly above the needles.
I’m not sure why it’s necessary, but I suspect
it has something to do with establishing the mood.
The heat from the lamp and the hum of the box are soothing.
But my leg still hurts like hell, and to make matters worse,
I feel like piece of week-old chicken stuck under a heat lamp
at some sleazy HOF. But that’s beside the point….
I lie there like this for twenty minutes, whimpering to myself.
And in that time two things become abundantly clear: 1) Whoever
said “Pride comes before the fall” was spot on
with their assessment, and 2) there’s no way in hell
I’m ever running again.
A
Needling Point