Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana

Groucho Marx

*Note – the draft of this was written pre The Plague*

February. It’s usually the best month of the year. It’s short for a start, paydays are as close as they’re going to be. Some of your utilities give you a break – no Council Tax or Water Rates to pay. You’re practically a fucking millionaire man. From a personal perspective, I also like February as it’s my birthday, even though I’ve now officially stopped counting the bastards. Also, by the end of the month we start to see the first glimpses of it getting lighter and milder – a huge relief to those of us who’ve been out running in shite weather and clarty conditions.

All good. Except this February I’ve probably had the worst running month of my life. Fuck off February.

It all started innocently enough. After my run every day January streak I decided to treat the family to a good old anti-running empty carb loading full English breakfast. My gluten free wife declined this mouthwatering invitation with a gentle ‘no fucking way’, but I still persuaded my 8 year old daughter to fill her boots down the local greasy spoon.

If you want to look deep into the psychology of said fry up, it was a reward for both the physical and mentally tough journey I’d just been on. For most though, you’ll see this as fat bastardness and an undoing of the good work from the past 31 days. Fair play to you.

But as I ate my 6th sausage dipped in egg yolk I thought, you know what, I’ve earned this. It’s a one off treat, and I’m going to smash the bejesus out of the rest of 2020.

Skip 7 days and it’s my birthday. I’ve turned 40. I’m properly not arsed. I do however treat myself to some badly needed new running trainers. This is where it’s starts going tits up.

As most of you know by now, every weekend in February was basically a shitley named storm. Wind, rain, more wind. Pre run, I stare out the window at the sky and already decide that this will be awful and painful. Running in it is not very nice. It’s proper wank, much harder work than usual and no fun whatsoever.

The night before my birthday I get invited to a work ‘kick about’. This seems like a really good way to end my 30s I naively think. I’m in good nick due to running and I’ll dazzle the young uns with my fitness levels and deft defense splitting passing. 30 mins in, *Crack*, as a lankey streak of piss, invited to make the numbers up, decides to launch me to the moon in a 50-50 that was 90-10 mine.

As Shakira once poetically put it, your hips don’t lie, and mine was screaming ‘I think I might now be in 3 separate pieces mate’ as I picked myself up and hobbled out the last 30 minutes. A post match couple of pints helps dull the pain, but I’m very much aware it’s not ower clever.

So I wake up next morning, in my 4th decade, to find I can hardly walk. Fitness levels better than they have been for most of those years, but now ironically limping pathetically. Life begins at 40 they used to say. Lies.

I therefore took a few days off running, mainly due to the amount of alcohol I had consumed but also due to my pensioner hip. A quick glance at Strava shows the description of my first run back after this was ‘Fat and Windy.’ For the next two weeks, all my runs were crap. Leggy and devoid of any enjoyment or pleasure whatsoever. You’ll understand that feeling if you’ve ever watched an episode of Mrs Browns Boys.

Then the coup de grâce. 7 miles into a planned 10 miler I start to get a slight painful niggle in my left Achilles. I once pulled my right one on a run (read about it here) and this felt familiar. Half a mile later I have no choice but to pull up, as the fear of ‘pinging’ it like the last time felt like a very real and shit outcome. Lamp post kicked and called a fuckknuckle, I walk the remaining 2 and half mile home pissed off and pretty sure this will keep me out for a bit.

There is nothing more annoying to a runner that being injured. For me, running is part of my routine. Plus, despite that last couple of weeks, I usually quite enjoy it. So resting, for whatever reason, is difficult. This injury doesn’t feel too bad. Like I’ve stopped before doing any real damage to it. It’s pretty obvious that it’s nowhere near as bad as the last time. If the last one was a tear (it was like I’d been shot) then this one is more like a strain.

I rested it for exactly a week, which is like 6 months if you’re a runner, and hopped on the Treadmill for a couple of miles. It was sore, but bearable. Champion. All sorted. I strutted into work the next week with my gear, ready to rejoin my colleagues on our weekly after work running group. Strapped up, giving it large like a war veteran about how I’d pulled my Achilles but was alright now and ready to go. Proper full of shit basically.

2.5 miles later, it’s another lamppost being kicked and fuckknuckle berated. I accept the inevitable and bunker down for proper rest and rehab but know I am in the shit here. I have two races (snigger) coming up. North Tyneside 10k in April, Sunderland Half Marathon in May. Unless something dramatic happens between now and then, I’m going to be in nowhere near any kind of shape to run them.

Fuck off February. And when you fucked off, fuck off over there some more.