This is all about running. You hate these ones. But you hate them because you're jealous. Like non-smokers hate smokers, like the skinny hate the obese. It's the comfort that all those latters obtain, that fucks with all your former minds.
My friend Emma is in a boot. Stress fracture in her foot. But not no ordinary stress fracture, at least not no more. This injury normally presents as a barely visible hairline crack. Her foot, she is informed, looks more like a splintered piece of wood. Why? Because she trained on it for three months. This is the running equivalent of injecting yourself in the groin, enduring extreme pain in search of that just one more big rush. She may never run again. Foolish? If you like. Understandable? Oh yeah. That running, that's some good shit.
While I was on my yearly nine month sabbatical from the land of Stranded, I finally got back on the road, in the park, by the beach. And it was going very, very well. I was creeping over the 40 mile a week mark, putting in six mile threshold efforts at 6am, knocking out 20k Sundays. I ran a couple of races, dropped under 70kgs. All these sweet sweet numbers, speaking of a real return to form. And then, just before the first peak race, in a fucking Yoga class, I did something moronic. And hey presto, I've got a Grade One tear in the attachment of my left adductors. I ran on it. Of course I ran on it. And it really fucking hurt. So I ran a little faster. The pain followed, as it does. Thus reluctantly and on the advice of my miracle working physio, I let go of my Strawberry Half plans and went back on the methadone bike. If I was rich I could go under the knife, have the bad bit hacked out and a good bit reattached. But I need to work, and work doesn't hurt, so I just have to let it heal. Six months is the optimistic prognosis, though I doubt that takes account of all the biking, all the squatting, all the lunging. None of these activities cause actual aggravation, but the odd twinge and dull ache makes me suspect that they're not really helping. I try a little jog every now and again. Instant discomfort and the promise of something way beyond. So I just have to wait it the fuck out.
Or do I? If Emma can run on a broken bone for three months, why the fuck am I being such a wuss? It's just a little searing pain in the groin. The half-heartedly stifled groans of agony as I climb the stairs are surely something to which my family can adjust themselves. Htfu, motherfucker. Yeah, yeah, there's that 'may never run again' niggle. But that's a 'may' right there. And these medicine talkin' guys are always saying shit like that. Every alcoholic gets told that another drink will kill them, so they go for a pint to calm the nerves and does it kill them? No. Or rarely. Or not immediately.
So. Anyone up for a quick jog around St Anne's?