May 2007 - It All Starts Here

[Sweder]

So I toddled off down to the local LA Fitness sweatshop where I’d booked in for a lunchtime massage. I did this for a couple of reasons, the main one being if I made this part of my working day I might actually go ahead and do it.

My practitioner today was Annie, a charming lady, petite, with a soft Scots accent – how appropriate on this, the three hundredth anniversary of the formation of the Union. We discussed my running history and I grinned like a fool as I confessed to abusing my body by running hundreds of miles without so much as a cursory check-up. When I revealed that I ran marathons Annie’s ears pricked up.
‘In that case we’ll need to test your muscles’ she said. A worrying smile spread across her face, her eyes widening.
‘Er, yes . . .and what would that entail?’ Quiver. Gibber. Twitch.
‘Kinesiology.’
Ah yes . . . Kinsey-ology . . . er . . . wasn’t he the bloke who discovered sexual proclivities and wrote books on . . . oh no, that was Kinsey. Right. Shut up and listen.
‘And that is . . . ?’
‘Kinesiology refers to the study of muscles and movement in the body – first off we’re going to find out how strong – or otherwise- your quads, hamstrings and calves are. I’ll need to do that if I’m to treat you properly.’
I started to sweat gently at this point. My wife will tell you that I have a basic dislike of being fiddled with, in the poke-and-prod, in-front-of-the-telly-massage kind of way. This sounded like more of that.

Actually it wasn’t so bad, a series of resistance tests to ascertain the apparent strength of each muscle, then a repeat using magnets and applying pressure to points somewhere adjacent to my sub-clavian (in a sort of Spok-subdues-the-baddie style), at which point my initially strong fibres appeared to turn into soft noodles. It turns out my hammies are pumped, in great shape; they look strong, they feel strong and by golly they are strong. My quads, however, are flattering to deceive; warm liquorice would have offered more resistance to Annie’s determined efforts to push down my legs on the quad test. She prescribed a daily intake of vitamin B Complex - 'perfect for quads.'

As for my calves . . . well, I knew what to expect.
Oh they’re fine and dandy, strong as wee oxen, provided they’re emptied of all that nasty, three-week-old lactic acid. And there’s the rub. Or several rubs, some finger pressing, flesh squeezing and a good deal of silent towel-chewing by yours truly. Not as savage as the Mighty Kader it’s true, but I could feel the rot being pushed into my knees by those small yet deceptively iron-like fingers.

‘Drink plenty after this – helps to flush the bad stuff out of the system.’
I immediately pictured a squadron of freshly-poured pints lined up for inspection. As if the image had appeared above my head Annie let out a wee chuckle.
‘That’ll be water I’m talking about.’
Of course.

I have to say I’m feeling a darned site better now than when I went in. We did locate a particularly dogged enclave of badness in my right calf. It’s still there, though much depleted; another session or two will winkle it out. For me it’s the green light for a return to some light training – long overdue. Against all considered wisdom (surely not! – ed) I might try an evening downland trudge; then again, an early morning blat to Blackcap might be better. The mend is nigh!