My Stupid, Dangerous Run in 110-Degree Heat

An important and scary lesson learned: Don’t be an idiot

Time got away from me one morning last week. I was busy writing and editing stories about extreme heat and health — no joke — and I missed my running window. It was mid-morning, and the temperature was climbing past 100 degrees here on the outskirts of Phoenix.

I get antsy when I miss a run. My body needs to move. I felt out of sorts all day. Around 4 p.m., I thought screw it, gotta get out there.

I know better. I had just edited a story, written by health coach, nurse practitioner and runner Elizabeth Knight, that warned of how quickly heat can overwhelm the body during exercise, and how unpredictable the effects are for each individual. (Full disclosure: Knight’s article is part of special report on Heat and Health here on Wise & Well).

I’m also well aware of heat-related deaths in the desert—often hikers who underestimate the heat and fail to bring enough water, or both. In fact, this year, there have already been seven apparent heat-related deaths just in state and national parks in the Southwest, which if confirmed would be the most on record this early in the summer.

Whether you run, hike, walk or work in the heat, my tale of idiocy is for you. I hope you learn something.

By the time I headed out for my run, it was around 110 degrees out there, and humid. Thinking I’m one of those people who can handle the heat better than others, I figured I’d test out this whole “heat shuts the body down quickly” notion. I’ve run in the heat many times in my life, but perhaps not quite this hot. I was curious.

The plan was a short run, probably just 2 miles compared to my normal 3 to 5, up a familiar local trail out into the desert. As I headed out the door, my wife, also a runner, asked if I had my phone.

“Nope, a short one.”

She was distracted and didn’t ask if I had water with. I do not. This is a test. Off I go.

The first mile is slow, as expected given the heat and the gradual climb of the trail, but otherwise uneventful. I feel fine, so I decide to go another half-mile out, make it a 3-mile out-and-back.

Here’s the thing. In extreme heat, the body keeps its cool by sweating. But when the body temperature crosses a threshold, the system no longer works efficiently enough. Things can go south in a hurry—especially if you’re exerting yourself.

“If unchecked, this can progress to the more serious level of heat stroke, where your body temperature climbs to dangerous or even deadly levels,” writes Kathleen Murphy, in an exhaustive article about how heat kills and how the effects are different depending on age, sex and other factors. Full disclosure: I had just edited that article, too, a couple days prior.

At the 1.5-mile mark, my mouth is dry. I’m still breathing normally, but my legs feel like they’re running in molasses, and I’m sweating like the proverbial pig (pigs don’t sweat, by the way, so I’ve always wondered about that saying). I turn around, mission half accomplished, and head home.

That’s when I realize I’ve gone too far.

Within a couple minutes on the return leg, my whole body begins sending warning signals to my brain, communicating things like drink water, you can’t do this much longer, you should have brought your phone just in case, and you’re an idiot.

I had no water? I always take water on challenging runs. And I’d recently edited a super-informative article about hydration by Eric J. Kort, MD. You could fill quite a few water bottles with the stupidity pouring out of my brain today.

So I scan my brain for information about how long I have before my body starts shutting down. No clue. Everyone reacts differently to the heat, I’d just read, and there’s no formula. But I’ve also read enough horror stories of people who go out into the desert without enough water. They die. End of story.

My story isn’t over. I mean, I have a little less than 1.5 miles to go, then I’ll be safe and sound, swaddled in air conditioning and gulping down gallons of water. Water. Wow, I could really use some water.

I’m normally pretty zen when I run. But now my mind begins to drift. What if I sprain an ankle? What if I trip and fall and split my lip open, as I did in a trail race a while back? What if? What if I just can’t do this? No other morons are out here in this heat. Nobody will find me. How long will I last? I’ve got my bright orange shirt on, so maybe a passing helicopter will…

Then I trip. Almost fall. The mind is losing focus, the body missing a step. I begin to wonder: Should I walk? That seems crazy. I mean, walk more than a mile in this heat? On I run. Then I trip again.

This is no longer running. It’s stumbling with style.

Not to be overly dramatic, but I’m starting to worry a little. Somewhere shy of panic, mind you. After all, I’ve got some experience with pushing my body and mind to the limit during runs.

In my first and only marathon — in 1986 — I bonked at mile 22. I walked. I cried. But we runners develop an amazing ability to exert mind over body. My brain took over and I began jogging again and somehow willed myself to the finish line. But that was a cool race under towering redwood trees. Another time, during the 10k run in a triathlon, I gassed out in 96-degree heat about a mile from the finish line. Chills settled in. My best friend and running partner caught up to me, shared his water, and stayed with me to the finish line, sacrificing his time to keep me motivated and safe.

So yeah, I know what can happen. And it’s 110 degrees and humid this time. But I don’t have far to go. So I try to exert that same old mental control over my bodily functions. It isn’t working. This run is short, but the heat is far more intense. And I’m 61 now.

My body is slipping into the early stages of what will be an inevitable meltdown if I keep at it much longer. Nothing has stopped working yet, but everything feels sluggish, no longer performing commensurate with the level it has been trained. How much clear-thinking, functional time do I have left? I have no idea.

Just a mile to go now in this lamebrained 3-mile test, most of the rest a slight downhill grade. Still too far to contemplate walking. I focus not so much on running but on shuffling along without tripping. But my pace is slowing dramatically. I can almost walk this fast.

Exactly 2.84 miles in, I see our house. But I can’t run. It’s no longer a choice. The last 0.16 miles — a mere 282 yards — will be walked. Still 110-degrees. Mind no longer winning the battle over body. It’s a very slow, humbling and slightly scary walk over a distance less than three football fields.

As I walk through the front door, the AC washes over me. I head to the kitchen for a glass of water. Now I see spots. Imaginary spots. Little dark, fuzzy spots. Everywhere. My vision narrows a bit. I feel… woozy.

“How was it?” my wife asks. Or something like that. I’m not really sure. Water. I need water.

I haven’t told my wife about what really happened out there, so I hope she doesn’t read this. I feel embarrassed. Stupid, and deservedly so. I should have taken water. I should have taken my phone. I should have turned around sooner.

Oh, wait: I should not have gone for a run on such a hot, humid afternoon.

And though I recovered quickly after drinking a few gallons of that precious, wonderful, life-saving water, my body was a worthless lump the rest of the evening, and the next morning’s routine jog was a slog. My idiotic test ended up being a lousy training run that negatively affected the next one. A total bust. And what if I’d gone another half-mile on the outbound leg? I don’t want to contemplate that level of foolishness.

But I survived. Lived to run another day. Hopefully a whole lot more wisely.