I’m not sure whether it’s due to global warming, or cosmic rays, or simply that someone has been scattering slippery banana skins around the UK’s most popular running routes, but it seems that a lot of people are laid up with injuries at the moment. The amount of runners taking to Facebook and The Twitters to lament the fact that they’ve been forced to take a break from the sport they love seems to have gone through the roof in the last few weeks.
It’s heartbreaking to see, and I can only wish them a speedy recovery while trying to distract them with lego and adorable pictures of puppies. But the more I think about their injuries, the more I wonder why I’m not sat on the bench right next to them. I’ve had a couple of knee-twinge moments, but that’s about it, and nothing that’s stopped me running for more than a few days.
I’m a living advert for how not to run-proof your body. Despite my best intentions, I rarely foam roll (it’s found use as an umbrella stand for the last few months), I don’t stretch much and I do zero leg strength or core work. I used to take glucosamine and wear a magical magnetic wristband, but that fell by the wayside quicker than the Death Star’s “Free Hug Friday” initiative. And rather than being sleek and economical, my running style can best be described as “flat-footed troll trying to kick his way into a basement. While on fire”.
So why then, after around five years and thousands of miles, have my legs not exploded?
If I’ve learned anything since starting this blog, it’s that the internet is wise and infallible, so I’ll put the question out to you lovely lot…