In days gone by, the level of pain* I felt today would have been immortalised in song, a mournful ode sung around campfires by stoney-faced men in pointy helmets.
Possibly there would be a lute.
But this isn’t days gone by. It’s today. And today you’re getting a blog post.
This morning I went for my second physio session, and I had good news to report. Before the first session, my knee pain had been building up for weeks and weeks, with every long run seeing it edge further down the scale from niggle, to twinge, to throbbing-pain-that-will-surely-bugger-off-if-I-ignore it, and finally to feeling like I’d been hit across the legs with a crowbar. Now, just two weeks later, I was practically skipping towards the clinic**. A combination of sound advice from H (my physio) along with her deep tissue magic meant that just two weeks later I’m once again able to do reasonably long runs. Just yesterday I went out for what I hoped would be a long run, and without the sickly familiar throb in my right knee at around mile five I was able to push my distance up to twelve miles without so much as a twinge. Well, obviously they weren’t exactly fresh as a daisy either – they’d just carried me for twelve miles, but nothing out of the ordinary.
So my point is, the physio was working. Unfortunately for me, I was so enamoured with how well it worked that I’d forgotten how much it bloody hurt…
Fast forward ten minutes and I’m lying on my back, teeth gritted. A smiley and diminutive ninja descends on me, and by the feel of things she’s hell bent on forcing as many white-hot ball bearings deep into my thighs. I’m no engineer, but I’d estimate that each of her fingers was capable of exerting a pressure of at least 100,000 pounds per square inch; There were a couple of times when I thought they were going to go all the way through and pop out the other side. Wincing, I half-joked that next time I’d bring a piece of wood to bite down on, but even as I said the words I knew I’d never actually do it. For one thing it’d prevent me from taking gulps from my hip flask.
It sounds like I’m whinging, or that I wish it hadn’t hurt so much. Not so. It was a good pain. Okay… so now I sound like someone whose idea of a pleasant Sunday afternoon would involve paying a trio of Amazonian traffic wardens to beat me with oars, but what I mean is that it was a pain with a purpose. No different to having a flu jab or getting your head chopped off by your mates if you’d been bitten by a zombie and now you were in danger of turning into a zombie and eating all of your non-zombie mates.
Umm… yeah, so like a flu jab then. The point I’m rapidly losing sight of is that, painful as it was, every moment of todays session was a moment that shouted “Oi, knee pain! F*** right off! I’ve got miles to run”. It was as if the forces of good and evil were fighting it out in my thigh. Unfortunately, both sides had bazookas and a blatant disregard for their battlefield.
And then it was done. Despite the punishment that had been meted out on them my legs felt light and grateful, and I practically bounded out of the clinic, happy-legged and Definitely Not Skipping.
Three weeks till Half Marathon. Oh F***.
Hmmm… having read through todays blog post I can’t help but think it would sound better accompanied by a lute.