Another couple of weeks on from the calf injury, and I’m still on that uncertain frontier between a life of grinning, carefree athletic endeavour and an existence of grey, listless stagnation. But I do at last seem to be facing the right way, and perhaps even edging across the border in the right direction.
To test the troublesome right calf, in the last few days I’ve managed to include some tentative plodding in the brisk walks I’ve been on. On Saturday I managed five two-minute bursts of controlled jogging, and earlier this week, on a chilly, overcast seafront, it was six. In between these vigorous eruptions I’ve been striding purposefully for two or three minutes. So far so good. Perhaps the rest and the reluctant stretching really has helped. Probably more the former than the latter.
I remain weirdly unconvinced by exercise regimes. I quickly tire of these dull ceremonies. My physio has give me nine to do each day. She calls them exercises but they’re more like stretches. I haven’t confessed to her that I’ve not yet managed to do all nine on any one day, and that I’ve missed a couple of days completely. No point in voluntarily inviting reproach. 
Overall it’s been a runlessly grim few weeks though some bright spots have recently broken through. I’ve got myself back on the rowing machine and the Ski-Erg, and as mentioned, the return of the outdoor bowls season has helped to jolly me along. Last week was unseasonally sunny and warm, and offered a full reminder of what bowls is like in mid-summer. There’s nothing quite like a game of bowls on a hot summer’s morning. As I occasionally stop to mop the sweat from my brow and take in my surroundings, I’m struck by the peacefulness of the scene. Murmurings of appreciation from from the adjoining rink; blackbirds singing in the trees, the occasional Spitfire droning overhead, heading for the Seven Sisters. Very England. Very 1940.
Yesterday
Talking of the Seven Sisters, I finally managed to attend a Ramblers’ walk yesterday, a 17-kilometre effort that started at the abandoned YHA in Eastbourne and meandered through Crapham Bottom and Cornish Farm to Birling Gap, then scaled a couple of the Seven Sisters before reaching Flagstaff Bottom, just ahead of Rough Bottom. Then north to East Dean for lunch on the green, next to Sherlock Holmes’s retirement cottage. Getting back on my feet was one of the toughest parts of the day but once I’d managed it, I was able to manfully press on towards Pea Down and back to our starting point.
This was the longest walk I’d been on in years. Probably since that period in Switzerland when I was walking parts of the Alpine Panorama Trail. Like running a marathon or visiting India, I began to enjoy the experience only the day after it was all over. And as with running a marathon, my initial thoughts of “Never again!” have soon turned into “When’s the next one?” The answer to that is that the Beachy Head Ramblers stride forth every Wednesday morning. Next week’s is less local to me: Firle, near Lewes. Maybe I’ll attend. It would be a good habit to get into.
Today
Back from the physio, and from 34 brisk walking minutes along the seafront. The prescription received from the physio is two running sessions before our next meeting in a week’s time. The first must involve ‘a proper run’ (which wasn’t well defined), and the second is to be a ‘gentle jog’. I didn’t reveal that these terms mean about the same to me. I’m guessing the former is an invitation to do more than my two-minutes on-two-minutes-off routine. Okay, I’ll try it. I shouldn’t feel so wary about this. Six weeks on from the injury, it’s either sorted itself out or it hasn’t. If it hasn’t, perhaps that’s telling me that I should permanently relinquish my dreams of Olympic glory. Concentrate instead on bowls and ambling across the landscape with other plasticated oldies.
