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This Sporting Wife.
El Gordo's encounter with the MRI coincides with my own similar first experience of CT angiogram - which is also a rather odd sensation: not unlike being inserted into a two million dollar Stargate-shaped magnet (only smaller and fatter - and I mean the magnet, not the patient*), and tearing up hundred dollar bills, for it is a rather expensive scanny thing. And unlike the really cool full-colour pictures of your heart and stuff you see in the glossy brochures, all I received for my $825 were three large negative images of what appeared to be a drainage plan for a swamp somewhere.
Regular viewers might recall that four years ago I had my otherwise blisteringly successful first serious running campaign rudely interrupted by a very unscheduled and painful insertion to the critical care unit in the cardiac wing of my local hospital. This followed the rapid onset of a bout of pericarditis, a nasty and potentially fatal heart disease which nearly brought the career of none other than Bob Dylan to a premature end some years before. My dose was relatively mild and quickly dealt with, but caused a further 3 years of piss-farting around with medicos and medication which, to be perfectly blunt was a major pain in the arse. In order to convince everyone (not the least of all myself) that my heart is just tickity boo and all this messing around with drugs and stuff was doing nothing except to line the pockets of greedy Swiss pharmaceuticals manufacturers (and nowadays their Chinese and Indian counterparts) and make me feel miserable courtesy of the drugs' side effects and a seething unease about the long term consequences of these things, we down the expensive glossy-brochure scan track..
So. A CT angiogram it was. And the result? After a careful analysis of the drainage plan that the radiographer had slipped into the envelope my witchdoctor declared my heart "fine" and said I could have a trial period of 6 months without the need for unctions of fetid rhino kidney or the need to consume Somalian fire-ant tea. Which suits me just fine, and I'm feeling just great now guys.
And this is even better because I'm currently working a heap of looooong night shifts, as in genuinely round-the-clock, through-the-night stints that test not just your physical stamina but your adaptability in new and disturbingly unexpected ways, the details of which I shall spare you.
There are of course benefits to working nights. One of them is a sadistic pleasure, particularly on Monday mornings of going to Central station and catching an empty train home and being able to gloat while hoardes of depressed commuters pour off insanely crowded trains and head to work.
Anyway the real point of this is simply to say that life is insanely crazy at the moment, and whilst I don't want to die wondering whether or not I have a marathon in me (and I'm actually certain I have, but one still has to prove these things to one's self) getting into a serious running routine at present is about as likely as, well, something vanishingly unlikely shall we say.
Even so, when I read about the promised triumphant return of Seafront Plodder and El Gordo to the world of running, or the astonishing, flabbergastering (flabbergastering??) effort of Gebrselassie in breaking 2:04 for the marathon and even just wandering around the streets of Canberra recently and its magnificent marathon course, well it just makes me want to put those running shoes on and head out the door. We'll just get through this series of night shifts, have another bit of a spell in Adelaide and see what starts cooking thereafter. It could start to get interesting again round here.
I mean SP, running again! Woot!
*Although then again...
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This Sporting Wife.
