Within hours of gloomily tucking up the previous entry in bed, and retiring, head bowed, I feel obliged to rush back up this glittering celebrity staircase to announce these better tidings. It’s a small gain, but at the moment, any gain is something to be snatched and shown off.
It was nothing more than 3.5 miles around the block at lunchtime, but for the first time since Boxing Day, I managed it without feeling any calf twinges of note. Even better, it wasn’t a desperately slow, damage-limitation plod, but a jog of medium intensity at around 10:30 minutes per mile. Not exactly a sprint, but enough effort to feel as though I was testing the bloody-minded tendons.
It’s tempting fate, but I’m hoping that I’ll be able to look back on these wretched 17 days and think that it was the best thing that could have happened as it served as an early warning signal about the perils of overdoing the interval sessions, and piling on the hills and the long runs before I was truly ready. Though there is another, more prosaic explanation — a change of shoes.
The run before the fateful Boxing Day jaunt, I went for a robust 6 miles along the canal, and decided to wear a pair of Asics off-roaders (Gel Guts) that I’ve had for years but barely worn (probably no more than 30 miles, and not for 2 or 3 years). They felt pretty good at the time, but my calf went during the next outing. And then again, last week, I went along the canal again in the same pair of shoes, and felt a definite calf jangle after 2 miles — bad enough to make me stop running and walk back. Perhaps they have too unforgiving a last; or perhaps their age has crumbled some invisible, vital inner organ. Since then, I’ve played safe and stuck to the new Asics Foundations I bought in December. Of course, I have pointed the finger of suspicion at the new Asics too, but have released them on police bail. They feel surprisingly good on these short pavement outings, and were recommended to help deal with my pronation, so I’m prepared to give them an extended chance. I’m not sure how they will hold up on longer runs; perhaps I’ll stick to the tried-and-tested New Balance 854s for anything over 6 miles.
There’s another reason I have a spring in my step today. I’m still warming the cockles of my heart on the afterglow of Chelsea’s limp defeat at the Devil Bowl yesterday. Seeing those overpaid tarts so roundly humiliated really is among the most joyful of life’s experiences these days. Even more cheering are the growing rumours of Roman Abramovitch’s disillusionment with his plaything. You can’t help feeling that his perfect scenario would have been to see his side win the Champions League final in Moscow, enabling him to exit on a firework display of glory.
And yet another reason-to-be-cheerful is this morning’s Amazon delivery of Series 2 of The Wire on DVD. Apart from Rodney Marsh’s hat-trick against Birmingham on The Big Match in 1970, this must be the best TV ever. And this is why I must stop now. I need to get a slug into my system. Now. N-n-now.
