Strava's depressing truths for all those who are injured

Logging on to Strava at the moment is a pretty depressing experience. When I upgraded to a premium account a few months ago, I did so in order to delve head first into the statistics of my running life, to analyse individual runs and to monitor my fitness and progress over time. What I didn't envisage was the prospect of getting injured and being presented with a demoralising daily assessment of my declining fitness. 

Opening the app today is, indeed, a lot like watching the news. I am shown a variety of graphs that deliver nothing but bad news. The line graph depicting my monthly fitness, for instance, has plummeted like the value of the travel industry in the wake of the coronavirus, while my monthly activities graph just reminds me how little I've done this month compared to last. My training log is empty and my weekly intensity graph is showing single digit figures, meaning that my training is on a par with a 90-year old.

So Strava and I aren't getting on at the moment. We have fallen out and, like Rachel and Ross from Friends, are now officially on a break.

I'm four weeks into my eight-week enforced hiatus and it's a struggle at the moment to find the positives from the situation. But there are a couple; being injured and seeing your fitness fall off a cliff does at least give you time to consider what your comeback might look like. Yes, the graphs are all pointing downwards at the moment, but therein lies a future challenge. How long will it take me to get back to my previous fitness level? This is oddly something that I am looking forward to discovering and, for which, I am prepared to forgive Strava for its weeks of betrayal.

Then there's the plank. Over the past few weeks I have been attempting to lengthen the amount of time I can plank for, and it's going well (more on that in a future post), despite my children's best attempts to put me off. But other than that, the positives are pretty thin on the ground. 

Not running, day after day and week after week, is incredibly hard. I definitely feel that my mental health has taken a bit of a kicking; I'm moodier, I'm irritable, my patience is wafer thin, I feel uninspired with my work and I feel more tired, more often. It has also given me a terrifying glimpse into what life in the long term might be like without running. What if I don't recover from this Achilles injury? What if that's it?

It doesn't bear thinking about. I can't spend the rest of my days on an exercise bike. 

So there's nothing for it. I have got to grit my teeth, get on with the next four weeks, ease myself back into it slowly and set my sights on a comeback goal for 2021.

Here's to one upwards curve that I'm looking forward to seeing next year.

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When a nagging Achilles injury rules you out for two months

Why not running is harder than running

I'm now two weeks into my eight-week injury-enforced layoff, and I'm struggling. Not lacing up my trainers, locking on to a GPS signal and heading out on to the trails - especially on a Sunday - is proving far harder than I imagined. If this is cold turkey, then I'm the running-equivalent of Renton from Trainspotting, in desperate need of a hit and looking everywhere I can for an alternative high. 

The problem I have, however, is that there is no real alternative. The physio has told me not to overly stretch my Achilles while it mends, so that rules out most leg-based cardio; lane swimming during coronavirus times feels like sharing a Covid bath with strangers and my mountain bike is busying itself rusting in the garage. That leaves our indoor bike, an eBay-procured machine that has been used more often as a clothes horse than it has as a cycling aid.

But this is all I have and over the past fortnight, I have dusted it down, taken the saddle and attempted to pedal my way to a sweat. 

It has not gone well. The bike and I are not friends. For starters, my bum was not made with cycling in mind. Mother Nature's decision not to bless me with any padding of note to my rear has left me with saddle sore nether regions with every bike I have ever owned, and the indoor one is no different. 

The result has been several highly uncomfortable and, quite frankly, boring rides in my dining room. I have taken to watching TV as I pedal, but even this doesn't seem to make time go any faster on the bum-torturing device. Cycling indoors just doesn't give you the same feeling of effort and exhaustion that a good threshold run or hill session would. Staring at the wall or watching repeats of Top Gear also doesn't compare to blasting your way along a muddy trail or taking in a hard earned view from the top of your favourite hill.

Of course, the other issue with being injured is that wherever you go, you inevitably come across perfectly fit runners - with their wholly intact Achilles tendons - bouncing along the pavements or paths with a broad smile and a cheery 'good morning.' Like taking a dieting chocoholic on a tour of the Cadbury factory, forcing a reciprocal smile takes a Herculean effort.

So I have found myself being far grumpier than usual over the past two weeks. My wife will testify to this, as I have taken to moaning more than usual and have been eating peanut M&Ms by the kilo. Being forced to abstain from running for two months feels so unfair and it is only when you have it taken away from you in this manner, that you realise just how much you rely on it for your general wellbeing.

Without wanting to sound like Sting, running grounds me. It is the only thing that works to relieve the stresses and strains of life, literally allowing me to run off the physical manifestations of stress (the headaches and tight shoulders), as well as the psychological affects (the worries, the 'what ifs' and the 'I should haves' of life).

As Joni Mitchell once said: "You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone."  

And as for the bike...anyone ever tried cycling with a cushion down your trousers?

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Strava's depressing truths for injured runners

When a nagging Achilles injury rules you out for two months

“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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Why not running is harder than running

Runinng with a cold during the coronavirus pandemic - snot easy!

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A year ago, a cold was a cold. If I had one, I’d be miserable, I’d look like death and people would generally refrain from a cuddle, but we’d all otherwise go about our days. Today, however, venturing out in public with a cold feels like you’re threatening the security of the nation. People stare in horror, hurry their children away and tighten their face masks at the mere sight of your blood shot eyes or, heaven forbid, the sound of an involuntary sneeze, however muffled by your incendiary tissues.

 

My cold this week has put me firmly in the ‘he must have coronavirus, let’s avoid him’ camp, but I can’t blame people for scrambling to the nearest exit in their bid to escape the fallout zone of my nostrils. While I most definitely don’t have coronavirus  - no fever, no continuous cough and no loss of taste or smell – I’ve not exactly been an advert for positive wellbeing either, a point that was brought starkly home to me on my first post-cold run.

 

In hindsight, I should have left it one more day, but in my Lemsip-addled brain, I was determined to show this cold who was boss and get back to running. Over compensating for the slight dip in temperature, I spectacularly over dressed for the gentle 5KM I had planned, donning leggings and a buff around the ears. These served to almost instantaneously warm me up to a beyond comfortable temperature and set the trend for what was to be the most uncomfortable run of the year.

 

Without wanting to put you off your dinner, colds inevitably come with mucus and the kilometres that followed saw much of that mucus attempting to find its way out of my nose or down my throat. The result, I imagine, was the sight of a sweaty man whose bloodshot eyes were streaming and whose nose was running faster than he was. The strange gurgling/hacking noises, meanwhile, were not too dissimilar to those you’d expect from your average zombie. No wonder people were crossing the road 50-metres ahead of me, they were probably rushing to find the nearest cricket bat with which to bring my undead suffering to an end.

 

My energy levels were low, but at the back of my mind I had a nagging voice – most likely that of my old PE teacher – telling me; “This is good for you. It’ll sweat it out of you.” Of course, a large part of me wanted to believe it, but another part of me wondered whether “sweating it out of you” was supported by any kind of clinical evidence. Much in the same way as “run it off” was often used in my school days as a cure for sprained ankles and lower limb fractures, I doubted whether there had ever been a published study of either practice in the British Medical Journal. Nevertheless, I kept going.

 

Labouring around the familiar route, I was of course aware that I was still poorly, so I purposefully ensured that I maintained as much distance as I could between myself and anyone else on the pavements. The result was that I zig-zagged across streets and stumbled off kerbs, looking like I’d taken my last two paracetamol with a pint of Jack Daniels. However, I know that I did the right thing by my fellow pedestrians – as the majority of runners always do, despite the occasional glassy-eyed stares of those sceptical of anyone breaking a sweat.

 

By the time I reached home, I felt like I’d been in a fist fight. Everything ached and I had a ringing in my ears, but my breath eventually returned, my eyes stopped watering and, as I stepped into the shower, I realised that I actually did feel better for it. My body had needed a bit of a beasting to get it functioning properly and my mind had needed the wake up call to stop moaning and get on with getting better.

 

Granted, running with a cold is perhaps not a training session any of us would ever opt for, but when you’ve got no option – and providing you can accept the fact that you are going to look the worst you have ever looked – my 100% non-clinical advice is go for it. Just remember to take a tissue or two with you.

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Running injuries - Why they're not always bad news

Many moons ago I interviewed Dave Beasant, FA Cup winning goalkeeper and legendary Wimbledon ‘Crazy Gang’ member, who told me about the occasion when he was forced to take time out through injury, after dropping a bottle of salad cream on his foot. 

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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