“No running for six to eight weeks,” said the physio, despite my best attempts to convince him that my nagging Achilles injury wasn’t anything to worry about. Although not unexpected, the news was a blow. I was staring at the prospect of a two month running hiatus and, as I assumed the position for a sports massage of the calf muscle to which my offending Achilles was attached, I tuned out the technical jargon pouring forth from the man to whom I was paying almost a pound a minute, to contemplate the prospect of a prolonged break from running.
What was I going to do instead? What was going to give me the cardiovascular high and the mindful moments that otherwise come from pounding the trails and pavements? How was I going to get through two months of other people’s Strava achievements without becoming irrationally bitter and envious? How was I going to cope with not achieving my 1,000 miles in 2020 goal? What on earth was I going to talk about now? Was I going to have to get on a bike?
Fortunately I was pulled out of my stupor within seconds of the aforementioned physio commencing his massage of my calf. Like taking a cricket ball to the testicles, the searing pain sharpened my focus intently. “Yes, it’s a bit tight isn’t it?” said my torturer as he buried his thumbs into my calf muscle. Every ounce of me wanted to scream; “FUCK YES, GET OFF ME YOU BASTARD,” but I remained face down on the bench and mumbled; “Yes it is a bit, isn’t it,” adopting a typically British approach to adversity by downplaying the excruciauting agony and attempting a conversation.
What seemed like an eternity later, and after the most painful weather-based chat of my life, my assailant completed his thumb battering of my calf and I clambered off the table. A walk around the room didn’t seem to ease the pain, however, as I hobbled around like Bambi on ice trying to encourage my minced calf to recover.
“Might be a little stiff for a while,” said the butcher, before chuckling to himself and relaying further bad news about the Achilles tendinosis that was going to sideline me for the next two months. So, in pain, depressed and £50 worse off, I left the physio with nothing more than instructions to practice weighted heel drops three times a day for the next few weeks.
That was a week ago and today, as I write this, I am most definitely going through running cold turkey. I feel less fit and my mood is generally miserable, but I am trying to cling to the positives brought about by the situation, namely; the fact that I’m saving a fortune on water and shampoo by only showering once a day; the washing machine is taking a break from relentless kit washes and I’m going to get two bonus months of longevity out of my trainers.
The other bonus, of course, is time. I have evenings and mornings back, I have more time with my kids at the weekend and I have the opportunity to finally address the one area of my running that I have purposefully ignored for years; my core strength.
So, while my trainers and trail shoes gather dust, I am on a mission to improve my core strength and mobility. I want to get back to running with a core more iron than rubber, an ability to hold a plank for five minutes and the strength that I know I’m missing to ensure I stay injury free for as long as I can. Of course, I know that I’ve shirked this area of my fitness for far too long, so in a weird way I am grateful to this injury – and to my heavy-handed physio – for giving me the gift of time and the chance to reassess what I want out of running in the long term.
Here’s to plank challenge day one…let’s try one minute for starters!
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