A Dictionary of Injury

If you were to consult a medical dictionary of injuries sustained by runners, and start reading from cover to cover, you'd be slowly working your way through ailments that have affected Yours Truly.

The latest affliction that has prevented any running type activities is a swollen and bruised Achilles tendon in my right foot. I don't need to visit a medical professional to have Achilles tendonitis diagnosed for me neither do I need to purchase the medical dictionary mentioned in the first paragraph. This injury was caused by an idiotic Londoner thinking that running a 33 mile race after a couple of 8 mile training runs was a sound plan.

Like most plans, it failed to survive the first engagement with the enemy, the enemy in this case being the D33, and from mile 20 or so I just had to hang on for dear life while my right Achilles screamed at me to stop.

So now I'm hobbling about like a coffin dodger on crack with a genuine reason for not running a step. And in a coincidental occurrence, Mason (dog) has developed a limp in his rear, right leg. Having developed a penchant for kebabs and being subjected to hours and hours of boxing on the telly, I wonder where this is just his way of mirroring his owner. But, like a responsible dog owner should, I did the right thing, withdrew a fistful of cash from the ATM, and took him to the vet.

OK, so I understand the condition presented to the very pleasant veterinary surgeon with the soft, Irish lilt in her voice:

A lame Staffordshire Bull Terrier is owned by a lame tattooed Londoner. The lame tattooed Londoner claims to be a runner. The lame Staffordshire Bull Terrier accompanies lame tattooed Londoner on runs. Diagnosis: Ligament/tendon damage in both patients caused by over exertion. Treatment: RICE and anti-inflammatory medication (by the way, I can get Brufen for under £1.00 from Asda for Yours Truly, but the same stuff from the vet for Mason (dog) is £14.00). Prognosis: Both will be better soon and if they're not the lame tattooed Londoner will be back with the lame Staffordshire Bull Terrier to pay off another chunk of my mortgage.

Well, the vet didn't refer to any medical dictionary to arrive at the decision above and to be quite honest, who can blame her? I quite enjoy revelling in this idea she has that I'm some kind of extreme athlete and couldn't find it in myself to enlighten her to the fact that I'm shit and rarely run further than to the off licence at closing time.

So the plan is that Mason (dog) and I will swallow Brufen for the next ten days; me ingesting the budget stuff from Asda, and he the Rolls Royce of medication from the vet. I might hit the gym and train alongside the cap-wearing idiots in the weights room who never train their legs anyway while Mason (dog) will be limited to short lead-walks only.

Then in ten days time we'll see how we are and whether the 53 mile Highland Fling at the end of April is a viable proposition. I'm drawn toward a picture I've posted before which refers to the shortcomings of ill thought out plans: