Full Stop

An aim of mine when I decided to kick off this blog was to – at the very least – update with weekly anecdotes. I felt this would paint the trusted representation of the journey. I’ve never been one for keeping diaries (too lazy and easily distracted); maintaining a blog would be the kick in the arse needed for consistent input. In years to come, I wanted to accurately recall the journey, rather than blatantly revise it with epic fibs and untruthful revisionisms, regardless of the outcome. 

I had this notion that the journey would be rough in places, especially around the 2^nd month (circa Jan ‘11). The sadistic side of me relished the thought of visiting some dark physical and mental places during long lonely trails; my aim was to scribe my recollections of these miles with positive insights and fun recollections. Sadly, I didn’t anticipate that I’d have such a downer this earlier in the whole process – I’ve struggled with the motivation to write this update. But, it may be therapeutic, and I’ll keep it short. 

I had started out several days ago so hopeful – I was convinced I had left the foot heal long enough. Regular ice and strength work were now normal activities in my daily routine as I laid the groundwork for a full recovery. Sadly, a casual ‘test’ 5 mile run last Sunday went fairly badly, my foot ached towards the end and things didn’t improve the next day.

Leaving it another day, I got in touch with my physio on Tuesday… her concerns mirrored my own – it was unlikely that we were still dealing with a normal strain. She’s fearful that the stone I hit may have chipped some bone which triggered various ancillary issues and protracted healing. At this point, an MRI is my only option so that we can develop a plan of action. This necessitated a visit to the doctor on Thursday for his referral letter - €50 for a 2 minute Q&A and a rubber stamp. Why is it that I need a doctor’s referral for an MRI when he knows significantly less about the whole experience, asks several pointless questions, and subsequently voices a recommendation for an MRI based on nothing more than a clumsy unskilled prod of my foot. Galling. 

I’m in bad humour about this anyway, so being ripped off by an aged clown doesn’t help. 

I await the MRI which takes place next Thursday, and I guess I’ll take it from there. Damn.

In unrelated news, my Wii avatar’s career (on Tiger Woods Golf 10) is progressing nicely after a slow and somewhat faltering start. Although he has failed to make the cut in any tournaments yet, he has bucket loads of potential. We're going to work on that potential this Saturday.

162 days to Paris.

Slowly does it...

Last week’s proverbial testing of the water didn’t go as well as I had hoped. Accompanied by Garry (who was on his way to soccer), I cautiously navigated my way around a complex of grassy pitches for 20 minutes (in strict accordance with my physio’s guarded instructions). Sadly, my foot felt vulnerable from start to finish and I decided not to push it again for the week (retiring to the couch once again).

With my recovery in hiatus, daydreams of runs were once again forced to play a poor substitute role. Worse still, my mischievous lower limbs had rustled up a fresh affliction: plantar facilitis – an infamous and painful inflammatory of the tissue in front of the heel – has affected both feet; possible due to the recovery core exercises addressing my ligament problems! When I think back - this all could have been all avoided by going around 1 stone!

Anyway, a phone conversation with my physio anesthetised my latest foreboding – she calmly assured me that I was making progress; the bruising and ligament damage was approaching a clean bill of health, and the plantar facilitis could be addressed with more kneading of the area with my trusty – and multifaceted – golf ball. Explaining this peculiar need for mechanical movement of my legs under my work desk was an amusing distraction for many of my colleagues but my discipline appears to have paid off. A week on, I was ready to try again – last night, I tested the joints with a 30 minute run at about 7.5 minute/mile pace. It went reasonably well and despite my foot feeling a little tight, I’m very hopeful.

In theory, my plan for the next few days involves taking today off; jog for 40 minutes tomorrow; day off; 50 minutes jog; day off; 1 hour jog; day off, and then… hopefully… fingers crossed… touch wood… I’m recovered; ready to go back to my club, and start gearing towards Paris again.   

On an equally positive note, a friend of mine from hockey days in College is targeting Paris too. Unlike my good self, she is the veteran of 3 marathons, the latest being the ‘09 New York Marathon where she finished in 24^th place (2h52m21s). In a word, she’s fast. She also reads this blog (hi Jill) so I won’t wax too lyrically about her – suffice to say that it’ll be nice to have someone to bounce training programmes, experiences and everything else off. Not to take away from this cyber portal, absolutely not, it’s just… well… as the Boolean technologies go, it’s just a little too logical.  

172 days to Paris

Choo choo

Today’s a big day – I’m hoping to get back on the horse. Over the last few weeks, I’ve been chugging down arnica tables every two hours with mechanical precision, plastering my ankle and arch with generous heaps of ibuprofen gel, resorting to endless laps in the deep end of a local pool while aqua jogging, and just for good measure, several hours of being screamed at to spin harder in satanic spinning classes. I’m exaggerating slightly (about the satanic bit), but I have been trying my best to stay fit and nurse my way back to the roads.

It hasn’t been entirely dull; I was helping out with minding Rebecca’s Mum’s golden retriever for a few days (Leo). This entailed several extended walks during the exceedingly early hours for my four pawed friend. Although I wasn’t technically meant to be out walking this early in my rehabilitation, I enjoyed it, especially when the sun came up. The down side was embarking into the pitch black and wandering down an old railway line that is enclosed on all sides by eerily still trees and solemn looking stone bridges. My protection for these walks was a pooch that has all the ferocity of a… well.. tongue hanging, slobber soaked, tail wagging golden retriever! The only time he perked up for a ‘kill’ was when a mouse scampered out in front of us… that’s how intimidating Leo is, a mouse fancied his chances. At all other times, he busied himself sniffing and peeing. Thankfully, the robbers, thieves, pimps, drug pushers, murders, and aliens I anticipated under each bridge and behind most shrubberies didn’t materialise – Leo’s somewhat suspect protective instincts remain unchallenged. As for my rehabilitation, although my ankle and arch tightened during these walks, it felt OK. Several days on, I’m only vaguely aware of any trouble.

In the absence of actual running, I did the next best thing – I read about other people doing it. The good news: a raft of various running novels, runner’s world magazines, and Internet ramblings has continued to wet my appetite. Although the magnitude of the task is beginning to dawn on me, I still feel good about it. Now – hopefully – with all the rehabilitation at an end, I’m ready to start ratcheting up my body for training (which should kick off in December). Today, I’m starting off with an easily paced 20 minute jog on the grass with Garry after work. I’ll take stock afterwards and take it from there.

                           

Baby steps.
180 days to go