Ouch!

I took ShockAbsorber D+ Level 4 36F for a trial run yesterday. Well, jog. Well, sort of fast paced walking with a hoppity motion. Well, hobble.

You see last week I spent considerable time at the allotment and in the front garden digging. In wellies. Which are well-known for their lack of foot arch support. When trying to extract an ancient rose bush from the front garden, one with a root system that reaches to somewhere just outside Watford, I felt something go 'ping' in the region of my left calf. Didn't give it a second thought. My pants were still up, so it wasn't the knicker elastic giving out, and that's all a girl really needs to worry about isn't it? So I carried on digging, creating a two foot wide moat around this damn rose bush's root system, but I couldn't get it to shift. I balanced on the top of the fork and bounced up and down. The root moved a bit. My ankle pinged again.

Eventually, I gave up and went inside for some lunch. It was only when I tried to stand after resting for half an hour or so that I realised I had A PROBLEM. My left ankle had seized up. The pain was somewhere between burning achiness and complete agony.

Yes, I had torn my Achilles tendon. (I know this; I had a consultation with the vet aka Andy. Always go to a vet. They train longer than doctors and lift you onto the couch rather than making you get up there yourself. Just watch where they aim the thermometer, that's all.)

It eased up over the weekend. Gentle walking, swimming, no problem. A bit twingy, but hey, I've given birth twice and sat through some excrutiatingly bad GCSE Drama exam performances, the discomfort was nothing I couldn't handle.

So into the sun I went yesterday avec my new jogging bottoms (size 14 no less. Get me!!), a cotton vest top, my red fleece, old trainers that will do for now and new bra which rendered me momentarily unable to breathe, it was so snug. I marched down the road to the back entrance to the park because I have discovered a place I can run where NO-ONE else will see me. It's a rugby pitch out the back of the leisure centre and very rarely is there another soul in sight. Perfect!

The jogging plan I wanted to try is called the '60 Second Plan.' Basically , you start by running for 60 seconds, then brisk walk for 3 minutes, and repeat 4 times. By the end of 10 weeks, you should be running for 3 minutes and brisk walking for 60 seconds repeated 10 times.
'I can do that,' I thought, visions of me leaping like a fleet footed gazelle around the rugby pitch, scattering a basket of rose petals in my wake like some sort of woodland nymph.

I reached the rugby pitch. Did a couple of bendy stretchy exercises. And, looking v. professional with my water bottle in my hand, glanced at my watch and set off for '60 second run' x 1. Within 40 seconds, something in my ankle went 'ping.'

Aaaaaaarrrggghhhhhhhh....and...OUCH-KI-BIBBLE!!!!

The sensible thing at this point would have been to STOP and CRAWL HOME.

But this is me we're talking about. Tenacious me. Determined me. Woman-who-posts-a- photo-on-the-Interweb-of-herself-wearing-a-large-brassiere-on-her-head-me. I'm hardly likely to do the sensible thing, am I??

Oh no. I hobble on and complete the first day 60 second training session. I limp home, gritting my teeth through the pain. I collapse on the sofa with ankle on hot water bottle. I get up from sofa. I can't walk. And the rest of the day is spent limping extravagantly around the house like a 95 year old with their foot riveted to a paving slab. Getting up and down stairs was very interesting.

So my plans to start jogging this week have been scuppered for a few days. I managed a swim this morning with the aid of pain killers and sobbing wildly through the agony.

But you'll be pleased to know the bra worked very well. Big tick, gold star 10/10. No pinging tendon issues in that department.

Keep on running...well, start at least...

'Sometimes,' I said to Andy yesterday, 'when I am walking briskly, as is my wont these days as walking is my main mode of transport since we sold our second car to buy the Eglu and...'

'Get to the point, darling,' said Andy, hands poised over his computer keyboard because I have interrupted him at a VERY IMPORTANT point in his virtual reality 'brave adventurer-creeping-round-a- sinister-castle-trying-to-avoid-monsters' game.

'I'm just providing a bit of back story for any readers new to my blog,' I said.

'Ahem,' said Andy, and I think he gave a slight nod towards his computer screen, but I might be wrong, could have been an involuntary tic like the time he told me to 'Sssshhh,' during an episode of Doctor Who. I mean, it was Christopher Eccleston too, for heaven's sake, not even David Tennant. Even I would have 'ssshhhed' me if it had been Tennant. But Eccleston????

Andy was, by now, staring at the ceiling and whistling.
'You'll never get off the ground with those little wings,' I said, pointing to his virtual reality computer character. 'I'd go for much bigger ones if I were you. More Archangel than Cherub. Anyway,' I continue, because although Andy is the most patient person I've ever met, even I could see he was getting a bit twitchy at my procrastination, 'sometimes when I am walking briskly, I feel like breaking into a bit of a run.'

Andy stared at me.
'Is that it?' he said.
I stare back.
'Isn't that enough?'
'I suppose,' said Andy.
'Cup of tea?' I asked.
'Ssshhh,' said Andy. (He didn't really say this. Wouldn't dare, not after the Doctor Who incident. I just added it for comic effect.)

Anyway, Andy appeared an hour or so later. I didn't ask if he'd overcome the monsters in the sinister castle because apparently these virtual reality games can go on for YEARS before any satisfactory outcome is achieved. A bit like real life only without bills, death and having to empty the bin when it's full.

'Let's go running together,' said Andy. He is clutching some sheets of A4 in his hand.
'What? Now?' I say, thinking his timing was very inconvenient as I was, by now, employed in IMPORTANT activities myself i.e watching Goldie Hawn and Bette Midler on the telly in 'The First Wives' Club.' Bette Midler and Goldie Hawn are two of my favourite actresses. In fact, I would like to have Midler's wit and Hawn's figure. Then I could be Bette Hawn. Or Goldie Midler. Or Boldie Hitler. Or Gette Hawnier...

'Well, not NOW,' said Andy, interrupting my silent ramblings, which was a bit unnerving to say the leastbut probably saved me from myself. 'In say, a month's time when I've got myself a bit fitter. I've found a beginner's training programme on the Interweb. I'm going to laminate it.' And he waves the pieces of A4 at me.

'Okay,' I say. 'Let's start running together.'

The rest of the afternoon is spent in a flurry of extensive research into running programmes (walk a bit, jog a bit, walk a bit, jog a bit more), avoiding injuries (don't start running in the first place), running shoes (stand in wet feet on a bathroom carpet to discover your foot type. I am 'normal arch', or in running parlance 'transitional'), support bras (hammock-sized moulded capsules), what to eat, what not to eat, calories burned, Aertex fabric, heart monitors (HEART MONITORS????) etc etc. It's a whole new world!
And I was very excited to discover there is a running programme called 'Fartlek!' It seemed quite complex so I think Fartlekking will have to wait a while. Or at least until we can make it down the hill to the park without collapsing in the gutter.

'Shall we register for next year's London Marathon?' said Andy, as he stood in the kitchen laminating his training plan ready to take to the gym.
I narrowed my eyes in thought (and imaginary pain.)
'Maybe the year after?' I suggested.

We looked at each other, both cuddly and amply curvacious, both a bit too fond of homemade cake and sitting on the swing in the garden reading books.

'Yes, maybe the year after,' we agreed in unison.

Andy and Gym

Andy has joined the gym. He has been twice this week, both times after work which, given he has been late finishing almost every evening, is pretty impressive. He went last night.

'I nearly died!' he announces cheerfully, returning an hour later. 'I did running uphill but stopped just before I felt like I was going to collapse.'
'Good,' I say. I wonder if I ought to sneak along with him, just to keep an eye on proceedings and administer artificial respiration if needed. Should I make him have half an aspirin before he goes? Did he take his blood pressure pills this morning? It's a bit of a worry. Especially when he's so blase in his near-death proclamations.

I can't bear gyms. That's why I go swimming and walking and do gardening and dance around the kitchen when no-ones watching. I've had gym membership twice in my life and the longest I managed to survive was eight months. It's the pain, you see. You go along with your stretchy pants and oversize T-shirt and your trainers that make your toes go numb. You start on something gentle like the exercise bike. You pedal away for ten minutes, building up a sweaty glow and then a stick-thin gym trainer appears and says 'That's your warm up done. Now do another twenty minutes. And don't forget to warm down for ten minutes at the end.'

Another twenty minutes?? Then warm down??? How does one 'warm down?' Call me old-fashioned, but I used to 'cool down' which involved getting down , or rather falling off the exercise bike and lying very still on the floor until I'd stopped hyperventilating and felt less hot.

And then you're expected to do more! So you attach yourself to the rowing machine and slip and slide around on a seat that has been worn dangerously shiny from the thousand other bottoms that have slid up and down on it before yours. I confess I didn't mind the rowing machine, especially if it had a little electronic consul that showed you rowing across a lake or up a river past ducks and stuff. I didn't mind the step-machine either except for moments when the gym trainer would come along and change the speed and incline without so much as a bye-your-leave and you'd suddenly find yourself climbing Mount Kilamanjaro at fifty miles an hour rather than a gently hilly slope at three.

The cross trainer was invented as an instrument of torture during the Spanish Inquisition. It was outlawed almost immediately on grounds of extreme cruelty even then, and has only been reintroduced in the guise of a piece of gym equipment because someone found one in a cupboard one day and turfed it out because they needed the space for their doughnut stash.

And then the gym trainer starts suggesting you do a few muscle toning exercises which is basically where they make you lie on a rubber mat that smells of old shoes and stale Lynx aftershave and do abdominal crunches until you projectile vomit. They try and make it sound all cosy and fluffy bunny by calling them 'tummy crunches' but don't be fooled. They burn like hell. And that is your body's way of telling you NOT TO DO THEM!

After you've finished, the gym trainer says 'Well done (fatso), don't forget your warm-down stretches.' And you go, 'Are you mad??? I'm off for a shower and a mug of hot chocolate and probably a good half packet of biscuits. And if I still feel like poop-on-a-stick, I'll have a piece of cheese on toast too.'

So I'll stick to my swimming and walking and gardening and dancing, thank you. They cause me no pain and they let me think about writing whilst I do them rather than worrying if I'm going to be sick or break my legs.

Tomorrow we are going, courtesy of our free 'Kent's Big Day Out' tickets, to the Yalding Organic Gardens. I am very excited.
'Are you excited, Andy?' I ask.
'What? Oh, er...yes,' says Andy.
I would be more convinced if he wasn't stifling a yawn at the time. But perhaps he's tired from this week's gym exertions.