This barren running period continues, but I feel OK about it. The strained calf means an unscheduled rest, that’s all, and I’ll be better and stronger for it. I’ve been miraculously lucky with injuries considering how fat and old I am, especially as I never do any stretching and eat all the wrong foods and spend a lot of time in the pub. Let’s face it, it doesn’t much matter.
Sometime soon I need to draw up a list of races for the summer and autumn. There is a strange, unspoken assumption that I’ll be taking part in the Dublin marathon in late October. I’m already in the Great North Run on Sept 21, and I’m keen to do the Bristol Half two weeks earlier. I had a mail from Pete (Griff from the messageboard), asking whether I’d be joining him at Bristol. It would seem rude to turn down the invitation, and I should manage a pass-out by suggesting to M that it was time we paid a visit to the Bristol IKEA again. No need to overburden her unduly with news of my running commitment until we’re speeding west along the M4, when I can slip in a casual reference to the half marathon.
I do, or did, have a couple of races pencilled in for next month, but I’ll take a rain-check on this calf nearer the time.
The military assault on Iraq is into its fifth day, and latest estimates are about 19 dead Brits, around 30 Americans and countless Iraqis, no doubt. The worst image of the war so far came from the Al-Jazeera website, with its photos of some of the civilian victims of the bombing of Baghdad. It showed a teenage boy with the top of his head peeled back, like a can of sardines. His head was empty. Let’s hope the pro-war people saw it too.
And that’s why my running injury really doesn’t matter.
