The two bold lines on the COVID test floored me — and not just because it potentially derailed my plan to try and run all 300 miles of ÂÒÂ×ÄÚÉä’s city streets.
Over the past four years, I’ve managed to steadfastly avoid catching the coronavirus. I’ve kept up with my vaccines. In fact, months before vaccines were available to the general public, I’d taken part in an experimental vaccine trial for AstraZeneca, allowing myself to be a guinea pig because it seemed like the right thing to do.
It wasn’t totally altruistic. Volunteers received some cash. I think I spent mine on dog food and beer — just the essentials.
AstraZeneca, ultimately, wasn’t approved in the U.S.
The vaccine wasn’t as effective as the others that came a little later and it suffered some bad press (something about blood clots), but it was still adopted and used extensively overseas.
Because AstraZeneca didn’t get FDA approval, it took time for the company to be allowed to give volunteers vaccination cards.
At the time, it seemed like I’d need some sort of proof that I’d been vaccinated.
Places like performance halls and ballparks were saying you might need to be able to prove you were inoculated. You might need it to work or to sign up for Netflix.
There was a lot of discussion.
To be on the safe side, I just went ahead and got another round of vaccines. I figured, “What’s the worst that could happen?â€
My doctor shrugged. He didn’t know for sure, but generally, everyone who believed in the efficacy of the vaccines figured it wouldn’t hurt me much.
I went ahead, took two more doses and then AstraZeneca offered to send me a card. I think they probably did. I just can’t find it — or my Sam’s Club card.
Since the vaccines began, I’ve kept up with the boosters and been lucky. I’ve avoided every wave of the virus, but my luck ran out during the week of Thanksgiving. Somewhere between here and Iron Mountain, Michigan, where my father lives, I’d picked up COVID.
Most likely, I’d been infected while sitting in an airport or while flying elbow-to-elbow on a small plane.
As bad as it could’ve been, my symptoms were fairly mild — a head cold with aches, chills and persistent swearing.
Isolation was the best thing for me, really. I was a slimy, indignant mess. I didn’t want to be around me. Having anyone else around was out of the question, whether I was infectious or not.
For nearly three days, between naps and bouts of sneezing, I shouted at the TV and my less than stable internet connection.
I shouted about the texts sent to me. Didn’t they know I was sick? Why were they bothering me?
I shouted about the texts not sent to me. Didn’t they know I was sick? How come nobody was checking on me?
I yelled at my sink when it became apparent that the stopper for the drain leaked.
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It got so bad that I finally texted my son, Emmett, and asked him to drop off a box of dog biscuits.
He wasn’t allowed in the house for the duration, but my two dogs didn’t have anywhere else to go. They had to put up with my temper tantrums. I figured a good supply of Milk-Bones was the least I could do for them.
COVID kept me housebound for about four days until my symptoms faded away and the COVID tests said I was in the clear.
I wore a mask in public for days after that, which was only as much as I had to.
With my One Month plan, I tried to pick up where I’d left off. Before I’d left town, I’d logged right at 10 miles — just a drop in the bucket.
Getting back to it, the first route I chose, I thought, would keep me away from people. I ran along Kanawha Boulevard from the Capitol to Daniel Boone Park. Then I returned, using, as much as I could, the streets parallel with the boulevard.
This wasn’t a new route for me, but in the middle of the afternoon, well after lunch, I figured I’d miss most of the usual foot traffic.
I wore a mask and got it done, at least.
I wound up only having to dodge one woman in a long coat walking a little dog and avoiding one guy in ballcap and cowboy boots riding a little bicycle.
The woman with the dog scooted out of the way for me as I passed. The guy on the bicycle flew past in a roar, cigarette smoke trailing behind him.
This was not my best run. It was a sweaty, ugly and slow. I felt lousy, worn out and feeling like I probably should’ve waited another day before stepping out on the street.
I finished with the bare minimum of three miles — still nowhere near where I needed to get to be anywhere within spitting distance of 300 miles by the end of the month.
But it was something.
I went home and slept like a stone.
My second and third runs after COVID were better. I put in another four miles through the southern portion of the east end and then did five miles on the flats of ÂÒÂ×ÄÚÉä’s West Side.
I parked my car in front of Drug Emporium and started off down Kanawha Boulevard and then turned down Bigley Avenue facing the ramp up to the highway. I started back toward to where I began, running along Randolph Street, which split off into Maryland and then a bunch of tiny streets that seemed to go every which way.
I wound up having to backtrack and try to get what I missed, which turned me around over and over. I looped the kids playing basketball in the street twice and passed the same Christmas decorations three times.
I finished up just in sight of the Mary C. Snow West Side Elementary School — right at five miles. Then, I walked back to my car and tried to mark down where I thought I’d been.
Five miles was better than four and much better than three, but I needed to cover a lot more ground to get anywhere near 300 miles inside of 30 days.
