Jolly

End of the Affair

The Long Jog to Comrades, Training Diary 2 Comments

I’m typing this whilst wallowing in self-pity.  I have a running injury.

Since my dalliance with speedwork a couple of days ago, when the hip flexor got involved, things became messy, and now it’s all over between me and running. WAH!

I feel isolated from my group of friends, because it’s suddenly obvious they were my lover’s mates.  They belong in running’s camp.

It’s the weekend, and normally I’d be out having fun with running, and then posting pictures all over instagram and FB and chatting to my pals about how amazing it was and where we went and how great I feel now.  I’d be buzzing with a million things that I could talk about over here on the blog. Instead, I’ve been at home all day. I’ve listlessly picked up my phone and put it back down.  The family talk to me, but I just see mouths doing guppy fish impersonations. The voices seem so far away. WAH!

(That might seem a bit over dramatic, but have if you’ve had a running injury, you’ll understand the moping).

Strange things have happened.  I’ve spoken to the kids and even the Grumpster and ventured into the shops.  (Not the supermarket, I hasten to add. I’m injured, not sick!) No, I have visited 2 establishments with a reliable stock of boulder-holders.  Twin1 and Twin2 were in need of new undergarments, so as my incapacity has NOT extended to my credit card wielding hand, I was commandeered to drive them across town to make purchases. Turns out there are exactly 3 designs of brassiere worth buying in Boganvillia.  Twin1 bagged the first two and Twin2 got to the third one first.  I was offered a consolation set of “chicken fillets” by a cheeky Twin1 so I could stuff my bra and counter the spaniel ears that replaced my boobs when running and I first got serious.

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Running. WAH!

I’ve turned to ice for comfort. I got it from running. (Not the sort that is widely available in town, *shudder*, no).  This is some that came in my Comrades goody bag: arnica ice. I’ve also been using actual out of the freezer ice, and bagged a hot water bottle from Twin2’s bedroom.  (The Grumpster was assured of me sleeping on my side all night and not troubling him with my best impression of Thomas the Tank Engine, as it was super soothing under my hip).

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I know my running buddies won’t turn their back on me.  They’ve taken me under their wing, even if it was running that introduced us.  They’re the sort that can carry on being friends with running, but still associate with me. But it gives me that slightly out-of-place, awkward feeling.  Like all I want to talk about is my sorrow, and you just know that they need to talk about other things.  Because, you know, they’re out there smashing goals and achieving a never-before pace and being all kinds of awesome. With running. So between me not wanting to overburden them, and them not wanting to rub their good fortune in my face, it’s a bit of a dilemma.

So, I’ve resorted to what any good abandoned lover does in times of need. I’ve been trawling my photo album and making pictures of happier times.

 

And I’ve visited a counselling service. Called stretching.  Stretching is really putting me back on the right path and making me realise the error of my ways in my relationship with running. I’ve heard of a great relationship therapy service called Yoga for Runners.  It’s fabulous for addressing those little niggles that creep into your relationship after the first flush of romance.  Sadly, it’s not available in Boganvillia, but if you know of one near you, I implore you to avail yourself of it to keep your own relationship on the tracks.

A running injury sucks.  It sucks the life-blood out of you. Do stretching. Keep your love affair alive!

I’m going on a short date with running this afternoon – just to see if we can rekindle something.

Wish me luck. xx

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2 Comments

  • Rhianna on 10th August 2015

    Oh lovely xx Sending lots of fairy wishes and butterfly kisses your way, hope the little run went ok

  • […] I carried out a little experiment on Sunday.  (A girl has to find something to amuse herself when she’s got nothing better to do than wear her son’s squirrel onesie and sulk about a running injury.) […]

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