After stifling a laugh, I asked him how he reflected on
that moment and the resulting eight-week layoff. He said he had to look for the
positives in the situation and those prophetic words – from a man whose high-flying
career had been temporarily side-lined by a condiment – have stuck with me ever
since.
Injuries are annoying, they strike when you least expect
them and often require nothing more than rest and recuperation. However, they
do also provide an opportunity to stop and reassess, which is exactly where I
find myself at the moment. I had ignored a nagging pain in my right Achilles for
too long, hoping that it would miraculously disappear, but it didn’t and I ended
up hobbling around my last run like Herr Flick from 'Allo 'Allo.
That was four days ago and resulted in my
utterly-unqualified self-diagnosis of ‘Achilles tendinopathy,’ courtesy of
Google. Of course, I may not have this specific condition at all – it might
just be ‘Achilles bit-of-a-niggleitis’ – but whatever it is, I knew I needed to
rest and let it recover. Of course, four days is no time at all, but it is long
enough to experience Strava-envy as my friends and running club chums boasted
of glorious, sunshine-filled runs, posting photos of themselves and their
super-strength Achilles bouncing along the trails and roads around my home
town. It was enough for me to momentarily consider a kudos-giving amnesty.
However, after overcoming my run envy, I realised last
weekend that I had a long-run-free Sunday and took the opportunity to book
myself in for a Covid-safe lane swim with my son at our local pool. It was the
first time I had been for a dip since the start of lockdown and the first time,
I think ever, that I had been for a swim with child No.1 without prolonged
periods of splashing, jumping in and being hit over the head with a float. It
was just him and me – and a handful of socially distanced others – going up and
down the slow lane (I’m not the world’s fastest swimmer) for 40 minutes,
stopping for a brief chat at the end of the lane and continuing. It was
wonderful.
Had I not been injured, I may not have taken the
opportunity to head to the leisure centre and would therefore have missed out
on a valuable bit of father-son time. My post-swim aching shoulders also served
to remind me how valuable it is to cross-train, and how little cross-training I
actually do. So I am going to attempt to swim at least once a week from here on
in – or at least until Messrs Johnson and Whitty shut the pools again – and
drag my nine-year-old away from Minecraft to join me.
As for the Achilles, it’s strapped up and resting, but the self discipline required not to don running gear and head out the door is far tougher than I imagined. I feel like I am somehow cheating myself and being unforgivably lazy. My Strava monthly activity and fitness graphs are also plummeting like a bad day on the stock market and pleading with me to reinvest in my fitness. This is tough. But I have self-prescribed myself a seven-day break and am determined to stick to the unqualified Dr's orders, for the sake of ensuring I can still hit my 1,000 miles in the year goal by the end of December.
However, while my ability to abstain from running is being tested to the limit, one thing is for sure, I’ll be steering clear of any salad cream for a few days yet, just in case.
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