Thank you gentlemen for your comments and kind thoughts...
Today I did finally pay a return visit to my podiatrist who made two bomb-shell announcements that has rather taken me aback. And they are: (i) my plantar fasciitis has now developed into the rather more problematic plantar fasciosis; and (ii) a reminder that I am not 40 anymore.
This "You are not 40 anymore" was at least a variation of the more usual "You're not 21 anymore" that I get from most medicos, but on reflection it was rather more concerning. After all, I have always thought of 40 years of age as being a fairly recent phenomenon, but in fact it was nearly two whole decades ago when some thoughtful friends tricked me into attending what turned out to be not the extraordinary general meeting of the high-brow socialist-leaning branch of the Modbury League of Unionists that I had agreed to go to at short notice even on a Wednesday night when I'd rather be attending to more pragmatic matters (such as bottling the latest batch of home-brew), but which was in fact a delightfully booze-fueled surprise celebration of four decades of my time here on Earth ...
Anyway, I digress on matters of intense nostalgia for times now long past ... the point is, my podiatrist chap says the problem is now sadly well-developed and is going to require an intense and doubtless painful two-weeks of regular self-inflicted torture sessions throughout the day if I'm to make any real progress and actually overcome this beast and return to where I should be in the land of running. He threw in a few words such as "princess" and "prima donna" which I chose to ignore, which was actually quite easy to do given the intense agony I was in as he forced me through impossible contortions of foot and calf, while a student podiatrist demon sat by ignoring my screams and simply taking notes... as ever, these moments of surreal psycho-physiotherapy are usually quite painful and consist of little to no logic whatsoever.
However, as I hobbled away from the interrogation session, unsure about how I was to fulfill my commitment made under extreme sufferance to actually follow the self-annihilation therapy set for me, I returned again in my mind to those countless early-morning training sessions in the dark and the cold, amid the complaining cries of the local fruit bats and the croaking of unseen frogs, and how this kind of surrealism sets us runners apart from the mere mortals of this world. And I realised then, in that moment of clarity, that running is just a completely illogical, insane thing to do.
And maybe that's why I miss it so. I seriously cannot wait to get back into it. So, ignore my screams, and watch me run...
Eventually.
Overcometober
