Like the final overs of the cricket (in which, as I type this, England have 5 overs to get 3 West Indian wickets**), Boston has become a touch-and-go marathon. I’m definitely going, and unless events (like a bad injury) make it utterly futile, I will be at the start line on April 20th. The big question is whether my stroppy muscles and tendons allow me to make the distance.
All I can do is try to maximise my chances. The calf is my, er, Achilles’ heel, so I’m doing as much stretching and massaging as I can without actually weakening it further.
Gym this evening, for a more moderate session than Sunday’s 250-minute monster. Tonight I settled for 30 minutes of cardio, and 15 minutes of calf stretching on the leg press. Then home for a deeply unsatisfactory evening of TV sport, apart from Liverpool’s impressive 4-0 drubbing of Real Madrid, and work emails.
An early night with Danny Baker, I think, and a few more miles of Michael Connolly’s “26 Miles to Boston”. He was a crocked plodder who ran the centenary marathon in 1996. The inspiration will help develop those mental muscles. Not that I think there’s too obvious a deficit there. I’m being as upbeat as I can, and possibly more upbeat than I should be.
Tsk! Did I really say that? Excuse me while I chase away any residual negativity. It’s all “Yes we can” from here to Hopkinton.
(**I’ll ignore the example of England, who just drew with the Windies, thereby losing the series.)
