Yesterday I put my calf to the test with an early morning three miler. It failed. The first mile I felt nothing, and was beginning to feel smug. But then mile two exposed a twinge, and mile three turned the twinge into an ache. It was bad enough to make my 300 yard warm-down walk quite a painful affair.
It’s a little depressing, but I have to be glad that I’ve no races coming up. If I was doing the London marathon in three weeks time I’d be panicking. On the other hand, had I planned to do the Washington DC marathon this weekend, I’d be fuming. The organisers have called it off for unspecified “security reasons”, much to the anger of most of the runners and the city authorities who weren’t, it seems consulted. No refunds will be given.
One ray of sunshine in this glooomy non-running period is the lack of guilt I feel about going to the pub. Last night I went down the local and plonked myself in front of the TV to watch the latest. It was depressing. Two nations at loggerheads. Shocking scenes. All that noise and fury and misery and pain.
And that was just the Liverpool – Celtic game. I couldn’t bring myself to watch the other stuff.
