A debilitating compulsion to experiment with myopic “recovery” plans has left me ruefully sitting on the platform once again; the 18-week-to-go-carriage pulled out of the station last Sunday, I was not on board, I was left waving my mechanical allegory a pitiful adieu. 18 weeks is a countdown milestone for me, as it was the starting point of my training plan for Paris. Filled with fartleks, hills, sprints, long runs, short runs, fast runs, slow runs, striders and well, that’s it I think, said plan has been forced to make a B line for the bin (recycling of course).
I only have myself to blame; I charged into recovery mode around three weeks ago (ignoring some sound advice from seasoned peers). Damnit, who ‘charges into recovery’? That shouldn’t even be a term, or maybe it isn’t. It’s probably just me; perhaps I just invented it. Anyway, I dutifully ignored every flare my foot was sending out as I tore around five mile loops with horses willing but carriage buckled. ‘My foot hurts, stop being a pansy, suck it up Morrissey’… (c) Gollum.
This latest tale of woe transpired two weeks ago, the Thursday run left my foot feeling sore and tight, the Saturday run… well… I knew things had gone very wrong – the remnants of my injury (plantar fasciitis) collapsed once again when I overtook a girl at the furthest point from home (why is it always the furthest point from home?). It was awful, I knew I had damaged it again, but I was overtaking a girl! What was I to do!? Enter the ego, stage left; I lumbered home at the same 7:30 min/mile pace (which was a protracted brain fart of an idea) burdened by the loathsome truth that my usual enthusiasm (that I’ll need in the run up to Paris) had landed me into some murky injury waters once again.
I’m floundering about in hiatus mode again. I’m probably a little cranky and I’m definitely agitated. Running makes me happy, so without it, I guess I’m not. At least the weather sucks (for runners that is – I’d imagine any soul under the age of 18 is doing a daily merry dance) – I couldn’t have run safely anyway. I can also take some solace that my humour is shared by the rest of the country as we prepare to bend of the barrel and empty our sparsely laden pockets into the well oiled hands of an incompetent fleet of wbankers.
Moan moan moan.
An inability to carry out a patient recovery aside, do you know the other thing I’m crap at (there are only two): swimming. It’s true; I’m a god awful swimmer. I’m the guy that dunks himself into the shallow end of the 25 m pool and if you were a bystander, you’d swear I was a dolphin. I certainly look the part. I have a little checklist of items to get through before I depart the safety of the shallow end: I adjust my goggles (glugging a layer of saliva into them in the vain hope that they won’t fog up this time); I ensure my swimming hat’s middle band of white runs from front to back (slight OCD); I lurch forward - as I have no glasses on - shuffling down the lane as I strain to see the stamp-sized information board directing me to swim anticlockwise; finally, I set my watch. Ready, set, go... I fire down the lane in an explosion of splashes calling on all to note my aquatic adroitness. After a sleek and nimble start, I begin straining fast - the body movements become laboured, my arms start to burn, and I begin chugging more than kicking. Worringly, the cogs are beginning to seize and this is half way down the lane, ¼ of the full distance! I invariably reach the turn completely shagged, but push off the end with a hefty (cheating) wallop on the side of the wall in the hope that this new found momentum may be difference between life and death. On a few more metres and I’m at the point of near delirium; I’m convinced I’m going backwards, no it’s ok, it’s just a 'relative' thing - some fossil in the slow lane has used a strong breast stroke to push on ahead of me. Races with the elderly aside, my breathing isn’t breathing anymore, it’s gulping; half air, half water. With no rhythm to speak of, I start wavering wildly around my own lane (blindly ignorant of directions to swim anticlockwise). Time starts assuming an elastic state and I've lost track of how long it’s been since I held the side of the pool. Mentally listing the loved ones I wish I was kinder to over the years, I spot that sweet incline of tiles at the bottom of the pool through clouded goggles. Not a moment too soon, sanctuary is near, which is beoming a pressing neccessity as I'm fit to die. The last stretch tends to draw a blank until but I invariably float in to the finish, as soon as a mere fingernail rests – rather than slams – the sides, BOOM… I’m on my knees, head out of the water and straining to mask piecing gasps for oxygen (the top half of my mouth inhales wildely, the bottom busies itself spluttering out gallons of pool water). It's a unique ability if you think about it. Unperturbed, I clumsily mash the stop button on my watch - I mentally record a 1 minute 3 seconds. Nice. 10 recovery minutes later, I hurl myself down the left hand side of the dividers again in an effort to match my PR. Nine more of these puppies to go.
God I can’t wait to be running again.
121 days to Paris
