There were probably hundreds of deaths across the country that did not make the headlines.

Yes, it was the third death in five years at the Toronto Marathon. And it happened about an hour before I crossed the finish line and probably explains why – on three separate occasions – race volunteers approached me as I fumbled through the finishers’ area, to make sure I was all right.

These people know what to look for. They ask questions formulated to quickly determine whether you know:

• where you are
• who you are
• and what the heck you just did

Each hung around me for a minute or so and only left when they were satisfied I wasn’t about to become a statistic.

The studies show that, overall, people who exercise are far less likely than sedentary people to die of heart attacks. Except when they are exercising.

But being fit is no guarantee that you’re immune. Again, the research shows that most people who die while running marathons had heart problems they weren’t aware of.

That was at the back of my mind earlier this year, when my legs felt like lead and my lungs felt like they couldn’t extract enough oxygen to keep my body going on runs that I would normally sail through. Maybe it was the heat and humidity, I thought.

Or maybe I was following in my father’s footsteps.

His heart gave out when he was 66. Sure, he was sedentary and obese and had begun to develop diabetes. I was fit but had just hit that half-century mark – the point where the medical establishment encourages you to make liberal use of the benefits of our health care system.

I could picture doctors anxious to prod and poke me and feed endless lengths of tubing through my innards. Despite that, I mustered the courage to do something I hadn’t done in a very, very long time. I booked a complete physical.

Four months later – three weeks before the first of two marathons this fall – I was in my doctor’s office, nervously lying on the examination table. The snap of a latex glove sent a shiver down my spine.

Once my plumbing was given a tentative passing grade, I was dispatched to the bowels of the Credit Valley Professional Building – where they do the nasty stuff. I prefer keeping my blood in my veins – and my body does not react well to people trying to take it out.

Flashback to Grade 9 and the nurse’s office and an attempt to prick my finger for a drop of blood. All I remember is arms flailing as I tumbled off that examination table, taking the nurse down with me.

And back further to Grade 2, when, minutes after receiving a booster shot, I saw nothing but dots and colours and felt the floor meet my bum.

This time I warned the lab technician. Her patience got me through it. Nobody lost consciousness.

The heart and circulation tests were far less invasive. The only pain was when she ripped the pads from the hairs on my chest.

And then it was over. All that was left was for me to sit at home – there was lots of time to do that back in August – and wait for the phone to ring, a sombre doctor on the line with the news that would change my life forever.

That call never came. Instead, it was a clean bill of health. A sigh of relief – and a green light to keep at this nonsense for a while longer.

Still, my risk of succumbing to a heart attack may be higher while I’m running. So’s my risk of choking to death while savouring a steak dinner surrounded by people who’ve never heard of the Heimlich maneuver.

For both, the benefits far outweigh the risks.