Today was the Lindfield Fun Run (go Caroline!). I was competitor no 550. But it was not to be.
It doesn’t take a genius to realise that telescoping a 14 week training schedule into 11 weeks from a standing start (not even) may not be without it’s problems.
I can plead complete ignorance though: I once got a book out of the library to test my IQ – I got a score of ‘cretin’. Once I’d got the hang of it, the tests were quite easy and I moved quickly up the scale to ‘really, really dense’ and beyond into ‘suitable for a career in financial services’.
Back to The Injury: I may have overdone the whole ‘my Poor Bandaged Foot’ routine. I’m getting no sympathy. It doesn’t help that, after 3 days the PBF has changed from commanding authority (‘ooh that looks serious’) to ‘what’s that rag tied round your foot for?’
Neil’s now over-identifying with the whole half-marathon thing and has nominated himself ‘team manager’. He has 2 strategies to get me to peak fitness (I’m laughing like a drain here) by 15 May despite the PBF:
(i) Strategy A involves haranguing me about how every moment I remain inert I’m losing aerobic capacity (I’m managing to tune this out)
(ii) Strategy B is to make me cycle for food. Scrambled eggs for breakfast? In Homebush. On yer bike. I get scrambled egg but I have to cycle a round trip of 25km to get them. I tried whining, whingeing, flat refusals, tantrums, sulking. Nothing. It was cycling, weetbix or starve.
Unfortunately when I got there, the Armoury Wharf Cafe at Olympic Park, the scrambled eggs were overcooked (one big solid lump instead of moist and wobbly). All that way. The disappointment.
I’ve been doing my stretches and am looking forward to Tuesday evening when I can maybe go for a jog if things are ok after the physio.
Something’s changed. That last sentence doesn’t sound like me at all.