The story of how running helped overcome drug addiction

2024 Author: Malcolm Clapton | [email protected]. Last modified: 2023-12-17 03:44

An excerpt from the autobiography of ultramarathon runner Charlie Angle - about suffering and healing.

Despite my addiction to alcohol and cocaine, I somehow managed to visit the local running club several times a week. I had enough self-esteem to take care of how I looked, and running was the most effective way to keep my body in shape. The chiropractor Jay, a friend of mine, ran with me in the group. He took part in several marathons and encouraged me to try it too. He knew that I was an alcoholic and a drug addict. He believed that I needed to set a goal for myself to motivate and free myself from addiction.

A week before the Big Sur marathon, I decided to take part in it. Before that, I ran more than 16 kilometers, only a couple of times in my life, but I thought it was not that difficult. You just need not to stop and continue to rearrange your legs. Pam didn’t believe that I’d be able to do it, but she seemed happy that I had stopped drinking during my “training” week. Jay advised me not to run the day before the marathon. I listened to his advice, but since I had nothing to do, I just sat and worried. As a result, a few hours later I found myself in a bar on Cannery Row and, along with my friend Mike, inhaled white streaks through my nose.

“I'm running a marathon tomorrow,” I said, brushing the powder off my nose.

- Well, you fill it up.

- True true. I need to be in Carmel at 5:30 to get on the bus that will reach the start.

Mike glanced at his watch and widened his eyes.

I looked at my watch:

- That's disgusting.

It was already two o'clock in the morning.

I hurried home, showered, brushed my teeth twice, and sprinkled cologne on my neck and armpits. After swallowing a few aspirin and washing it down with water, I ran to Carmel to catch the bus. 42 kilometers of shaking on a hilly, winding road almost killed me. My stomach was twisting inside out, my left ankle was red and throbbing - I must have sprained it at night - and I really wanted to go to the toilet. To make matters worse, the guy next to me was too outgoing and tried to keep up a conversation all the time. I could hardly restrain myself so that I did not vomit right on him. When I finally got out of the bus, dressed only in a T-shirt and shorts, I realized that this uniform was not very suitable for the morning chill - it was a little over zero. So, I felt sick, drugged, scared and freezing.

Over the years I have mastered the skill of "strategic vomiting" and decided that it was just the right moment to apply it. Going into the bushes, I tried to clear my stomach. I got better and was able to stuff a banana and an energy drink into me at the snack table. Then, while the national anthem was playing from the speakers, I walked around a bit and went up to the service staff. As I swallowed my second drink, I heard the pistol go off and instinctively ducked. But no one shot at me. This is most likely the start of the race. And I wasn't even close to the start line.

I ran along the road and gradually overtook the mincing crowd of three thousand participants. When the crowd cleared up a bit, I quickened my pace. As we ran through the redwood grove, the sun peeked through the fog, illuminating the gentle green hills ahead. I could smell alcohol on my skin and thought that everyone around me could smell it. At the fifteenth kilometer, I crossed a long bridge, after which I began my ascent to the summit of Hurricane Point, three kilometers long. Jay warned me of this rise. A strong wind blew right in my face. The stomach clenched like a tight fist. I got to the top and ran across another bridge. At the half-mark, I stopped to vomit again. A man asked if I was okay.

- No. Hangover. No beer?

He laughed.

- Highlands Inn. On the twenty-third mile! he shouted, stepping aside. - It's always noisy there.

He thought I was joking, and I probably thought so too, but at the 37th kilometer I could no longer think of anything but cold beer. I turned my head in search of the Highlands Inn. Finally, around the next bend, I noticed a dozen people sitting on garden chairs next to refrigerators.

“Another four and a half kilometers,” one of them shouted. - You can already start celebrating.

Some runners greeted them with cheers and waved their hands; others just ran, not noticing and looking only ahead.

I stopped.

- No beer?

Someone handed me a bank. I threw my head back and drained it. The audience cheered. I bowed slightly in gratitude, took another can, drank, and burped. They all "gave me five." Then I ran on and the next one and a half kilometers felt amazing - much better than the whole morning. The nature around was beautiful - rocky headlands, cypress trees with winding trunks, long beaches with dark sand. And the clear blue of the Pacific Ocean to the very horizon, where it melted into strips of pale cotton fog.

Then the road turned from the coast to the gas station, where the musicians were playing. The assembled spectators shouted and waved flags and placards. The kids on the sidelines were smiling and holding trays of chopped strawberries for the runners. The smell of fresh berries suddenly made me sick. My legs gave way, I rushed to the side of the road, doubled over, and vomited again. Then I straightened up and moved forward on half bent, wiping my chin. The children stared at me with open mouths. "Fu," one of them drawled.

I have become a complete wreck. But I decided to end this damn marathon by all means. At first I just walked, then I forced myself to run. My feet were on fire, my quads ached. I saw a sign that read 40 kilometers. Horses were grazing on a field nearby, behind a fence with barbed wire, then orange poppies grew, bent almost horizontally under the gusts of wind. I climbed the steep hillside and ran over the bridge over the Carmel River. Then the long-awaited finish appeared. I forced myself to keep upright, raise my knees, wave my arms. “Hold on, Angle, show them all. Show that you are an athlete, not some asshole."

I crossed the finish line with a result of just under three hours and thirty minutes. The assistant put the ceramic medal of the marathon runner around my neck. Everyone around me rejoiced, shook hands, hugged friends. Someone was crying. What did I feel? Some satisfaction - yes, it was. I managed. I proved to Pam, my friends and myself, that I can achieve something. And of course, relief is relief that it's over and I won't have to run any further. But there was also a shadow that clouded all other sensations: oppressive despair. I just ran 42 kilometers. Fucking marathon. You need to be in seventh heaven with happiness. Where is my joy? As soon as I got home, I dialed the phone of a drug dealer I knew. […]

In January 1991, I agreed to go to the Beacon House Rehabilitation Center, located in a large Victorian mansion in the middle of a landscaped park not far from our home. I did it to please Pam and my family, and partly because I knew I could use a little moderation. I had been out the night before. Climbing the steps to report the first day of sobriety out of twenty-eight, I saw my suitcase. Pam drove away, leaving him on the sidewalk.

After I filled out the necessary paperwork, I was sent for examination to a clinic located in a separate building. I went into the building and sat in the waiting room next to completely ordinary-looking people - mothers with children, elderly couples, a pregnant woman. It seemed to me that the sign "NARKOMAN" was burning above my head. I fidgeted restlessly in my chair, snapped my fingers, picked up an old journal of the American Association of Seniors and put it back. Finally I was called and I went into the office.

The young nurse was kind enough to do the necessary checks and ask me questions. I was relieved to think that there would be no notation. When the inspection was over, I thanked her and headed for the door.

She grabbed my arm, urging me to turn.

“You know, you could actually quit if you really wanted to. You are simply weak of character, and you lack determination.

I have repeated these words to myself thousands of times. As if she heard them through a stethoscope while listening to my heart.

Before, I only suspected that I was somehow inferior; has now received confirmation from a healthcare professional. I flew out of the office and clinic like a bullet, burning with shame.

I was told to go straight back to Beacon House, but I was attracted by the beach just a few blocks away - and there was a windowless bar on the beach called Segovia, where I spent many hours. A walk along the ocean, a glass of beer - I really needed it.

But I knew I was making a huge mistake. Pam and the boss will be furious. They made it clear that if I did not follow the rules of the center and did not complete the twenty-eight-day course, then they would not accept me back. Therefore, there was no choice but to take this course, despite the fact that even the nurse gave up on me. I wandered over to Beacon House.

Now I had to detoxify. I was used to tying completely for a while - and have done so many times. I knew what to expect - trembling, anxiety, agitation, sweat, clouding - and even thought about it with satisfaction. I deserve this. On weekends, I would lie in bed, pacing the room, or leafing through the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous left on the table.

I only went out for breakfast, lunch and dinner; he pounced on food with a strange fervor, stuffing himself to the eyeballs with stewed vegetables, rolls and cookies, as if they could numb the pain.

On Monday I had my first consultation. I had never talked to a psychotherapist before and was afraid of the upcoming conversation. I walked into his office, a room with a high ceiling and wood paneling. Large windows overlooked a sunlit green lawn with lanthanum and pine trees. My consultant was a man in his thirties, clean-shaven, with glasses and a button-down shirt. He introduced himself as John and I shook his hand. In one ear he had an earring, a brown stone set in gold that looked very much like an eye. I sat down on the couch opposite him, poured myself water from a decanter and drank it in one fell swoop.

“So, a little about me,” he began. - I have not drunk for over five years. I started drinking and using drugs as a child. In college, I couldn't hold back. Drunk driving, trading, all that stuff.

I was surprised that he was telling this. I thought I would speak. Then he relaxed a little and said:

- Sounds similar.

We talked a little about where I come from, what I do, and how long have I "been using".

- Do you yourself think you have an addiction? John asked.

- I can not say exactly. All I know is that when I start, I can't stop.

- Do you want to be sober?

- I think so.

- Why?

- Because I understand that I need to change in order to save my marriage and not lose my job.

- That's good, but you yourself want to be sober? For your own sake? Apart from marriage and work.

- I like drinking, as well as the sensation of cocaine. But lately, I need more and more alcohol and drugs to achieve the desired state. It worries me. I need more to distract myself.

- To distract from what?

“I can't say,” I laughed nervously.

He waited for me to continue.

- People constantly tell me what a wonderful life I have. I have a loving wife and a job that I do well. But I don't feel happy. I don't feel anything at all.

It's like I'm trying to be the person that others see me as. It's like putting a tick in front of their requirements.

- And what should you be in the opinion of others?

“Someone better than me.

- Who thinks so?

- Everything. Father. Wife. I AM.

- Is there something that makes you happy? John asked.

- I don't know what it means to be happy.

- Do you feel happy when you sell more cars than other sellers?

- Not particularly. I just feel relieved.

- Relief from what?

- From the fact that I can continue to pretend. To delay the day when people find out the truth about me.

- And what is this truth?

- The fact that I look at people who are crying, laughing or rejoicing, and I think: "Why am I not experiencing any of this?" I have no feelings. I only pretend they are. I look at people and try to figure out how to look so that it seems as if I feel something.

John smiled.

- Quite a shitty situation, isn't it? I asked.

- Well, not quite. Any alcoholic or drug addict thinks about the same.

- Really?

- Yes. Therefore, we try to awaken the senses in ourselves with the help of alcohol or drugs.

I was relieved and grateful.

“I’m sure.”

- Well, at what moments do you experience something like real feelings?

I thought for a minute.

- I would say that when I run.

- Tell me about it: how do you feel when you run.

- Well, it's like I'm cleaning my brain and guts. Everything falls into place. They stop jumping from one thought to another. I can concentrate. Just stop thinking about all the bullshit.

“It looks like it works pretty well.

- Well, yes.

- So you are happy when you run?

- Are you happy? Do not know. Maybe yes. I feel the strength in me. And the ability to control yourself.

- Do you like this? To be strong? Control yourself?

- Yes. That is, I almost never felt like this in my life. Usually I feel weak, spineless, as they say. If I were strong, I would be done with it all at once.

“It’s not a flaw in your character at all,” John said.

- And I think that is just that.

- Not at all. And you must understand this. Addiction is a disease. It’s not your fault, but now that you know it, it’s up to you to decide what to do.

I looked into his eyes. Nobody has ever told me that. That I'm not the only one to blame

Over the next four weeks, attending group and one-to-one counseling sessions, I realized that something lurking in the depths of me and requiring alcohol and drugs was not my doing. There is no logical reason why I destroy myself. There is some kind of secret combination inside me, and when the numbers with a click match, desire prevails. Science cannot explain this, love cannot win, and even the prospect of imminent death does not stop it. I am addicted and will remain addicted, as the consultant said. But - and this is the most important thing - I don't have to live like an addict.

Charlie Engle is an ultramarathon runner, a record holder for crossing the Sahara, a participant in dozens of triathlons. And also a former alcoholic and drug addict. In his book, he told how his addiction appeared, how he fought it and how running saved his life.