In search of an honourable discharge

15 weeks to go (13 January 2013)

This is not the start I’d planned.

With the first week’s mileage comfortably ticked off, in spite of most of my calories now coming from home-made ice cream, I have a bit of a nightmare coming into week two.  Whilst jogging down the river to Barnes I take a detour over a bit of marshland and slip horrifically, smashing my knee on the floor and knocking all the wind out of me.  I lie on the wooden decking in agony as passersby enquiry after my wellbeing: I know the social protocol for this sort of situation is to jump up and laugh it all off but such is my pain that it outweighs my embarrassment.  I remain prone on the ground far longer than you’d think possible: Think Peter Griffin bashing his shin, then double it.

I’ve done myself a right mischief.

I eventually drag myself off the ground and start to hobble back to the house, half-limping half-dragging-my-useless-stump-of-a-leg-behind-me.  I’m really angry with myself (and with the Council, obviously, because I’m British and that’s who we blame for things like this) and am worried that my marathon plans are shot.  If I’m out of action for a couple of weeks now then I’ll only have 12 weeks to get ready for the marathon, and because of my festive wind down it means I’ll be coming to it after a month of inactivity and greed.  Not the ideal starting point.

Sat on the sofa being nursed by my long-suffering girlfriend the embarrassment does at least finally outweigh the pain, which I take to be a good sign.  Now I have another memory to add to the time when I failed to release myself from bike cleats at a red light in rush hour, Brisbane city centre, at the main crossroads by the train station.

My ordeal has only just begun, however, when my girlfriend reveals the reason behind her unusually sympathetic approach: She wants me to go to Ikea.  I’m all out of sorts and so hazily agree, which is how the next seven hours comes to be spent in the Croydon branch of hell.  Plenty of options for a good sit down at least when the pain gets too much.  And the Schadenfraude from watching my girlfriend burst into tears when she learns they no longer sell Dime bars is enough to get me through the awful, awful journey home. 

A marathon’s a piece of piss to a man that can get a bed home on the tube.  Knees are for wimps.