Putting your head in the sand is a totally inadequate treatment for a running injury.
I kid you not!!
I know it's how a lot of us runners deal with our niggles but I found out on Saturday that it might not be the best recourse. Certainly running 32 kilometres on a twingey hamstring wasn't the best recourse. It most likely was the worst possible recourse. Ahh hindsight, you're wonderful at pointing out stupid decisions and rubbing them in my face.
So now there's this.
And yes, I've blown it up for extra effect and extra sympathy because the sympathy and attention I got from the little photos I put up on Facebook and Instagram were just what my bruised soul (which was only just coping with the thought of not running for a week or, gasp, longer) needed. I'm sure the bigger picture will bring an outpouring of which the world has never seen before. And with each message of support I will whimper a meek 'I'm sure I'll be fine soon, it's really not too bad - only hurts when I laugh' so you can all be astounded with my stoic bravery and optimism while simultaneously wondering how such a bright and intelligent woman who doesn't look anything near the 52 years she claims she is could be so foolish as to run 32k on a gammy pin.
I'll tell you exactly why I made that ill-fated decision. My running friends and the looming spectre of a marathon in about 6 weeks (really must book the plane flights) and a cake that needed to get to where it was intended. But mostly it was because of my running friends.
I love, love, love these people. They've been the ones that kept me sane when my world was falling apart last year. They made me laugh. They made me forget about the awful horrible. They listened to me when I needed to talk about things. They put the world back into perspective for a couple of hours every week. And they're the ones that got me home on Saturday when I was sore and tired and had totally had enough. A couple of them even stopped and walked the last kilometre with me. Yeah, they're the friends you need when things are tough.
They're the main reason that I'm really hoping that my leg will only keep me out for a very short while. I'm off to the physio today (if I can get squeezed in) to get the verdict. I'm really wanting to be running by the end of the week just so I can hear more about the coprophagic dog and discuss the many reasons why dogs turn to poop-eating. And so I can get teased for three hours about how mesmerising my tights are. So I can pay homage to the camel-toe tree and laugh because we possibly all look a little crazy doing so.
Anyone got a miracle quick-fix cure?
If not I'll be forced to bake obsessively until I'm healed. And that's not a good thing when our household is light on numbers.