Different ; running again

Spoiler alert: this (short) blog is actually about running.

Recap: I pulled a left-leg calf muscle during the Easter Monday Lewes AC’s 10K, whose contraction tugged at my plantar fascia and gave me mild PF. I RICEd it religiously, got brilliant treatment, advice, and supernaters’ orthotics from my splendid sports physio.

I’ve biked madly ever since – 300K in June alone – and swum lots of lengths in the Pells. Low or no impact but exercise nonetheless. Just not running.

On Sunday, at physio’s instructions, I ran for two minutes and then walked for two; repeat five times. Mild sensation at the heel insertion of the plantar fascia, but nothing major immediately or in the following days. More icing and spiky ball rolling under the foot, as planned.

So this morning, I went for my first “proper” run in two months. A loop to Spring Barn Farm, Stanley Turner, Ham Lane, the Dump, the Dripping Pan, Priory Ruins and home. About 5K and change, though – thanks, @runkeeper; NOT! – my soon-to-be-ex running app gave me an extra kilometre or so in my first five minutes.

I felt my feet; I felt my feet. But nothing felt too bad. 2K in, my hamstrings were singing loudly to me. 4K in, it was the turn of my inner thighs. Different muscles being used for different things for the first time in anger in eight weeks.

But post bath, short term, I seem to be feeling fine. Another ride and a swim tomorrow, and a similar distance – perhaps with some hill work – on Saturday, I sense. Progress and rehabilitation, one day at a time.

Blessed

What was the first thing you thought of when you read this title?

Something religious? Brian Blesséd? The way the word sounds?

I’d half considered calling this post “I Should Be So Lucky”, and I had some of the Minogue spirit of the pint-sized popster coursing through my veins as I pedalled up and out of Lewes, to Ringmer, Glyndebourne, Glynde and Beddingham, and then looping back athwart the A27 through the monkey business of Southerham, Cliffe and home.

Still in recuperation from plantar fasciitis – regular icing, golf-ball rolls and less regular calf-kneading with a massage stick – I’m very much out and about on the bike these late Spring early mornings. I did the same loop on Sunday, but today’s was a good minute faster (and a PB, though there’s not yet much to worst in Runkeeper’s memory of biking). Nothing to do with me and my energy levels, I’m sure, but rather the fact that I pumped up my tyres before I headed out.

As I rode out today, blessed (not Blesséd) is very much what I felt. Regular readers will know how much I adore communing with early-morning nature, particularly bird and mammal life. Today’s highlight was a partridge, very far from any kind of tree (pear or otherwise), skittering ahead of me on the road up to Glyndebourne, alternately sprinting, putting in a short flight, panting by the side of the road, and then repeating the sequence as my orange Lycra torso hoved into view anew. Today was a first day of shorts (almost June), and I came back more dew-covered than tingly.

After the partridge finally decided to put decent distance between it and me and sustained an improbably long flight, the magisterial sight of the giant wind turbine on the Glyndebourne estate rose from the mist. And then it was weeeeeee … the fastest stretch of the 16K loop, racing past Carmen’s tobacco factory, Macbeth’s castle, the fascinating home of Aida.

I may not be running, but the joys of the early morning – experienced at slower but also very much faster pace than running – make me feel very blessed indeed. To be alive. To be breathing in the coolth of the early morning. To be communing with nature (and talking to it as I go, all a bit care in the community). And to be burning off the excesses of a generally fairly sedentary life.

I’ve said it (here) before: I find it ironic that it took until my mid-40s for me to really get the purpose of exercise – mental well-being through physical exertion. If only they’d told me that at school, I might have been more sober from teens to mid-30s, less Mr Creosote for much of that time, and with fewer Black Dogs for companionship in the wee smalls (they’re strangers there now).

Blessed.

Plantar freaking fasciitis. Again

120-140K a month, December-April.

Improving times.

No sense of injury.

Through ice, hail, rain and sleet.

And then the 10K on Easter Monday. 546th out of 675. Lots to do, plenty to aim at, but very different from every race I ran at school. There and then, I always finished last.

Hobbly afterwards. Worse the following day. And then a dawning realisation that I’ve got plantar fasciitis again. In the left foot this time, instead of the right. Actually, quite possibly in both. Weak, high arches. Plantar fascia torn – somehow; a rabbit hole? – and weeks or months on the sideliness.

Weeks or months of RICE.

Weeks or months of exercise on a bike. Poor investment of time vs running in terms of minds cleared, calories burnt, well-being gained.

I didn’t exercise much in my first 44 years. As a consequence, while many friends and peers who run are starting to experience wear and tear on their joints, my knees and hips are as fresh as a teenager’s. It’s just the freakingly feak and weeble feet and arches that let me down. Genetic inheritance, eh?

I passed a disappointing and rather perfunctory 17 minutes in the company of some orthotics specialists yesterday, and wasn’t much impressed by their bespokeness, enthusiasm or customer-centricity. Not the solution for me. No clear sense why hand-made orthotics (at £402) would work any better than the generics (£29.99 online) I’ve already got.

It would have been ungentlemanly to miss the Gentlemen of Lewes’ pre-season net at the County Ground, home of Sussex CCC last night. Two hours with proper coaches in a real cricket club. The closest I’ve ever come to being a professional sportsman (i.e. not very). And irony of delightful ironies, our arch rivals Rodmell training in the adjacent two lanes.

As a consequence, my feet are dog sore today – dog sore for the soles, Black Dog sore for the soul. So dog sore that they affect my ability to think about much else. A small problem that will clear up in due course and that will be alleviated by routine painkillers (which I always seem to forget to take and wonder why I hurt).

Enough of the self-pity. Chug, chug, chug with the ibuprofen and paracetamol. But no running for the foreseeable.

Mumford & Runs

After another visit to the shop to check out my troublesome feet yesterday, I hobbled away from my excellent sports physio with confirmation of a very mild dose of plantar fasciitis. Not enough to stop running (he has exactly the same condition in exactly the same place and still runs for an hour three times a week), but enough to do proper foot and leg stretches and exercises before and after each run, and ice/golf ball treatment on off days.

After five minutes foot limbering and a “power walk” up Rotten Row, I broke into a trot, looping down round the Pells and Malling Fields. Quick-walking posties did the six a.m. shuffle towards the Post Office sorting office in their regulation shorts and red tank tops (whatever the weather, even 30-centrigrade summers). From there I bounded over bridges, under bridges, round Harvey’s and onto the Railway Land, and ran a stretch of the Ouse towards the Dump.

The beauty of Ham Lane – full of blackberry blossom and buddleja – has a new addition to its kilometre-long length: a tough, interlinked metal fence to keep gatecrashers out of this weekend’s Gentlemen of the Road / Mumford & Sons extravaganza. Half-way along, I spied what I knew from the site plans had to be a temporary Bailey bridge for the main entrance. Flags fluttered in the early morning wind, and Convent Field is already boasting most of the main stage.

The Gentlemen of the Road start to take shape

Though I’ve got a very full two days between now and Friday – an off-work, Summer Friday to absorb and enjoy the full delights of the festival – I have to admit the prospect has put a spring in my step. That and the new warm-up routine shaved about 90 seconds of my usual pace for this loop. Quite nice!

Running to stand still

Sore patella from fielding with my left knee during the first cricket match of the season on Sunday.

Sore side of right ankle from falling off a bike on a slippery platform at Victoria way, way back in 2000. A war wound.

Sore heel from overstretching in the last K this morning in an attempt to bolster a disappointingly slow time.

Sore upper jaw from where, I fear, the tooth that had root canal two years back has lost part of its structure. A call to the dentist beckons, and it should be sooner rather than later.

Elated head and heart from 6K in the beautiful Sussex Spring. If the throbs from kneecap, ankle, heel and jaw aren’t too intrusive, I’m hoping the elation will see me through the rigours of the days ahead, tough projects to test me to the limit.

Life is good. Challenging, and good.

Running again – a few tentative steps

Having been declared “technically injury free” last Tuesday – a whole ten days ago – and advised to give it about a week until I ran again, this morning was the morning.

Lovely morning, no more snow and slush on the roads and most of the fields, and a good chance to stretch the legs. And stretch them indeed I did. Before heading out, while running, and after I got back. No more of this allowing my calves to sort themselves out – oh no! When I’ve done that historically, they get knotted like a pound shop slinky thrown about by a drunken epileptic on a rollercoaster (with apologies to Steven Berkoff, Greek, for the second half of that sentence. Daylight larceny!).

Simple loop – past the Grange, to the station, round the Dripping Pan, to the Dump, along the bottom of Convent Fields, into the training part of the Stanley Turner, looped back and home. Not quite 4K, not quite 25 minutes. Taking it easy, sans Cadbury’s Caramel.

I could feel my left heel and right ankle throughout, but only – I think – because of legacy and memory and decreasingly so the more I ran. I can feel them half an hour afterwards, but having been exercised, not having been overexercised. Time will tell later in the day and again tomorrow. We’re walking past the White Windmill to the Juggs – “under new management TM” – with friends shortly, so tonight and tomorrow will be a truer test. And after my second, most probably third run, I’ll Really Know.

If things work out, my plans are run – rest – bike – run – rest – bike – run in a typical week. We’ll see how it goes …

A tale of two rides

My friend and colleague @BenGLloyd will be riding for the next three days in the sunny – yes, sunny; 20-degrees plus – mountains of Spain. Not a dabbler like me, he’s taking his own bike for some punishing and well earned R&R. In the week of Black Monday, I’m convinced that he’ll ride in three days what I’ve ridden this month. Rispek.

My ride today couldn’t have been more different from his this afternoon. Dark. Minus two. Snow on the ground. 40 minutes. Perfunctory. And yet although so different in temperature, light levels, locale, hilliness and duration, I suspect in our own ways we do a similar thing at different levels for identical reasons. Cardiovascular health, mental clarity and a sense of perspective.

Very glad to be back in the saddle after a snow-enforced absence. Planning to go for the hat-trick – tomorrow before work and a longer ride on Saturday morning, before the Arctic conditions are replaced by a monsoon.

That said, I may also venture out for a first gentle run in a month, too.

Before the snow came

Before the snow came, Friday  morning was warmer than it had been all week.

Before the snow came, I couldn’t see my breath in front of my face.

Before the snow came, my meggings clung but didn’t freeze.

Before the snow came, you might have thought the big chill was on its way out.

Before the snow came.

//

Before the snow came, I hopped on the saddle and pedalled off.

Before the snow came, I was for the first time doubly tooled up.

Before the snow came, Runkeeper was joined by my birthday Fitbit.

Before the snow came, a brisk 11K; “11K sur le nez”.

Before the snow came.

//

Before the snow came, everything seemed ordinary.

Before the snow came, everything felt orderly.

Before the snow came, the peace before the tempest.

Before the snow came, before the snow came?

Before the snow came.

Happy Birthday to me

Well that has to be just about THE most freezing first 40 minutes I’ve spent on my birthday. Ever.

To be fair, I don’t think I’ve ever been out from 5.45 to 6.25 in the am on 16 January before, certainly not in leg-clinging meggings, pushing myself up and down 10K of hills just for fun (sanity, health and efficiency). Particularly a 16 January that wakes up to a hard, hard frost and is several degrees below.

But that’s what I did this morning, my third ride in a row, and my first following my sports physio yesterday at which I was declared “technically injury free”. Need to take things slowly and gently and work out the right shoes for the right gait and all that, not rush back into running – and certainly NOT in time for the Brighton half in a month and a day’s time. But it looks very much as if I listened to my feet in time this time and caught DOMS and incipient plantar fasciitis in time to prevent it going nuclear. Time will tell. But my first “gentle jog” of 20 minutes is likely to be next weekend, in ten days time. And then I plan to mix up running and biking to prevent the same pattern of overrunning and injury.

So that was a very welcome early birthday present to myself.

Dayglo socks outside the trousers

Ah the fashion mistakes of youth.

It’s the mid-1980s, towards the end of school. The start of the upper sixth, perhaps. September. The fair has come to town, the town is Thame, home of the Spread Eagle and Brideshead’s “brrrrrrandy Alexssssanders”.

Ever since the fair became something to do with peers rather than parents, ever since it became an event at which to preen and strut like peacocks, a nascent mating ritual or – more properly – a courtship dance, Thame Fair had become the place to try out new clothes. A new look for a new term, a chance to snare a belle or beau.

My fashion radar wasn’t very finely tuned at 17; some might say that was its high point. This year, I tried out a never-before/never-since seen combo. White Kickers boots I’d PESTERED my mum for. Red hockey socks, worn to the knee, where they joined a pair of Pepe plus fours, rouched at the knee. A predominantly purple Paisley shirt. And – to top off an already eccentric look – an odd pair of fluorescent socks over the red hockey socks, one eye-searing yellow, the other soul-wrenching green. Needless to say I walked myself (and no-one else) home alone that night.

There are other stories about that night – like the fact that Mark Bellis, now a B&B proprietor in the Trossachs, refused to stop playing Donkey Kong just because Brian Watson has parted company with his kebab thanks to an over-vigorous ride on the Centrifuge at the foot of the games console. Or the running rumble of Casuals vs the New Mods all around the Waltzer.

The spark of this memory of Thame Fair and fashion faux pas past came to me this morning when I pulled on green (though not fluorescent) socks over my yellow flash (very definitely fluorescent) meggings before heading out into the cold for a busy 10K ride around the fringes of Lewes. In homage to that (first and last) night of the Pepe jeans, I pulled the socks high, confident that I wouldn’t be seen for long enough or by enough folks to be pilloried in public for a second time in 29 years for this crime against fashion.

The ride warmed me up quickly, and it was a real Gruffalo of a ride. Two foxes, possibly three, right up close; an enormous barn owl, flapping out of the trees and just over my head by the start of the A27 bypass. I rode past the spot where, a couple of summers ago, @agentkiss took the Master to see two adders coiled up in the sun. And though I didn’t see a mouse, I’m pretty sure that at least one of the figures I saw struggling through the cold, all wrapped up, had terrible teeth, jaws and claws.

Off to the sports physio before work this morning to discover how soon it will be before I can start running with the Gruffaloes once more.