Revolution

The green shoots of recovery may have been sighted at last.

It’s not the economy, stupid. It’s me.

In my runiverse, nothing much has gone right this year. Just eleven hours into 2010, during the Hyde Park 10K, my injury troubles began, and they’ve not let up. Four weeks later came a failed Almeria half marathon, and since then, another desolate month has passed.  Just one run, two weeks ago, and that lasted a tantalising 2 miles before the calf sniper pulled the trigger again.

I’ve still not run, but the last few days have stirred me from my apathy, with 4 staggering spinning classes — by which I mean they’ve left me staggering away from the gym afterwards. There’s also an enlightening meeting to report.

Something had to be done to halt the decline. The leg problem shouldn’t have meant such a total submission to the dark side. M being away for 3 weeks hasn’t helped. Even at this should-know-better age, her absence has released my inner student. Despite my best efforts, I’ve never managed to shoo away this lethargic beer and pizza monster for good.

My body is like some unruly parliament, with this destructive character installed as leader of the Drinks and Nibbles Party. The Innocent Party keeps thinking it has won the heart and mind of this fading state, but the DNP delights  in grabbing any opportunity to wrest control again. While it governs, anything goes. Outwardly carefree and happy, it’s pleasure for all at all times. Or is it? For a while, yes,  but behind the scenes the structures soon start to crumble; the organs struggle and wither; morale dips. Corporeal debt balloons, and with it, fear and regret. The only recourse  is bloody revolution; a reassertion of clean living, and a restoration of the Innocent Party. And so the cycle begins again.

This time the cycle restarted last Sunday morning when, lying in bed with a mild hangover and a burgeoning belly, I suddenly permitted a rebellious thought: why not get to the spinning class?

I had 20 minutes to get up, dress, collect my spinning essentials from forgotten nooks  (gym membership card, vest, towel and drink), complete the 10 minute drive, park, exchange pleasantries with the person on reception, dash to the class, find a bike among the growling horde, adjust height of handlebars and seat, jump on, tighten pedal straps, and start moving my legs.

I burst through the door like some unwelcome guest at a family gathering, just as the lights dimmed and the music exploded.

Christ.

It was hard work, especially as the Sunday session is 60 minutes: 15 longer than usual. Within minutes, the sweat was splashing, and long dormant leg muscles were in trauma.

Early the next day, serendipity struck. Calling the gym at 6.30 a.m., as you do,  to book that evening’s class, I got talking to Emmanuel, the manager. I’d not come across him before. A casual question about a core-strength class led to a brief discussion about the calf injury. He insisted I meet up with him at the gym that evening, before spinning. I was instinctively reluctant, because he was surely interested only in selling me some personal training services. But I went anyway, and am very glad I did.

Unless he’s being unimaginably clever, he’s not trying to sell me anything apart from a new way of looking at the injury, and perhaps loyalty to Fitness First. He’s probably succeeded on both those fronts. He ended up giving me a 90 minute consultation, full of serious analysis, humorous explanations, and useful advice. We went through a range of flexibility tests. Combined with his peering at my feet and legs from a variety of angles as I squatted and twisted, he deduced something very similar to the conclusion of the gait analysis clinic in Maidenhead. An imbalance between left and tight; a weakness in the gluteus medius, and in the core generally.

The session ended with us returning to the gym, where he took me through some recommended exercises. His emphasis is on exercises that imitate the activity you’re aiming to do. So anything that can help teach the body the right way of running is OK. Cycling is good, including, thankfully, spinning classes. Interestingly, he was dismissive of the treadmill at this stage. He thinks that the difference underfoot misleads the body when transferring the activity outdoors.

The 3 main suggestions were:

• elliptical trainer (but crucially, with the feet kept flat, and with as little holding on as I can safely manage). This produces an involuntary rolling of the hips; a kind of dance-like sashay. Slightly embarrassing to be honest, but I can feel it doing me some good, and I can feel it forcing an increase in my range of movement.
• leg press, with another twist:
  • low weight
  • one leg at a time
  • the pushing leg has contact with the plate only on the outside of the foot to help counterbalance my pronation
  • the non-pushing leg is bent back across the other, and pulled tight towards the body as the other pushes, forcing a good gluteal stretch
• cable crossover machine:
  • grab the ring
  • stand with both feet facing forward, one a stride-length ahead of the other
  • if the right leg is forward, pull the ring with the left hand around the body, swivelling towards the right, and down.

Is that too much detail? Or not enough? It’s easy to get boring, when one is excited about something. I also need to note down what he said, in case I forget.

As for running, he had no worries about the calf strengthening with persistent exercise and steady progress. I also need to continue with the massage, so it looks like Phil will be getting another call soon.

The meeting was on Monday, and the good work has continued, with a further 3 spinning classes, making it 4 in 4 days. Tomorrow, Thursday, I will probably skip the gym. There is a great temptation to try a short run, perhaps on the softer surface of the canal towpath. Perhaps more of a vigorous walk in my running gear, so that I can have a few bursts of jogging.

The reason I want to try rebuilding a bit of running fitness is the vague hope of taking part in the Reading Half, only 17 days away now. The sensible bit of me (as well as Emmanuel) counsels that this is probably not a wise target. The more ambitious/foolish side thinks how good it would be, psychologically, to get round 13 miles, even run-walking. Unlike Almeria, it’s a big enough event to conceal a plump cripple like me waddling the final 3 miles, and still have a fair few coming in behind.

No decision is possible yet. Much depends on continuing this week’s healthy eating and exercise regime, and being able, very soon, to jog at least 5 steady miles. If I can do that this weekend, I may just feel able to push the boat out to 10 miles the weekend after, with the 13 mile race the one after that. But that’s the fantasy. The very possible alternative reality is that I will go out for a run over the next day or two, and have to retire hurt yet again. If that happens, it won’t just be Reading written off, but very possibly Connemara too, in around 6 weeks. So it’s a risky decision. Which reminds me of a joke I included in these pages some time ago (and spotted when I was migrating the content to WordPress):

A man walks into a butcher’s shop and says: “I’ll bet you £50 you can’t reach the beef up on that top shelf.” The butcher says: “Sorry, no, the steaks are too high.”

Ah, food again. It’s tough watching the new series of MasterChef while trying to marshal only salads, fruit, and sauceless meat and fish down my gullet.  That said, the health revolution wasn’t quite instant this time. On Sunday evening, despite the residual warmth of the morning’s spinning class, I knew I had unfinished business with the previous night’s  opened bottle of wine, and the diminished remnants of last week’s cheese splurge. I ritually dispatched these delicacies like they were some priceless sacrament. Nothing I ingested during February tasted finer than those chunks of Roquefort and farmhouse Brie, and those two large slugs of Argie Malbec.

I knew they would be my last naughtiness for a while. As always, I hoped it was some truly final celebratory meal to mark the graduation of that student within. But I suspect he’ll be back this way again before long.