If you’re looking for the Grinch this Christmas you could do worse than spend an hour in my company.
I was looking forward to a see-saw Christmas of too much food and drink balanced out by too many runs but now I have to go rummaging around in the back of the cupboard of my conscience and root out my self-control and badly faded sense of Catholic guilt. The running will be throttled back to rapid dog walking unless I have some sort of miracle cure in the next week or so.
What happened, did I miss a bit of the story I hear you ask. Have his legs finally fallen off?
Nothing so dramatic; just another case of me falling badly while out running.
A 4-mile-keep-it-ticking-over-and-get-a-dog-walk-in-at-the-same-time sort of run.
But it was at night. In the dark. I slipped on the edge of the path and came down on my left side this time. Sore shoulder, a mere scratch. Sore hip, a mere flesh wound. Landing full on my ribs with my fist under my ribs…..
Crack. – not the house, the whore or the great time in an Irish pub, but the rib(s)
With all of these injuries the ability for your body to pick itself up, run a diagnostics check and then let you keep running to get home is amazing. What is less amazing is its ability to reward you with agonising pain almost the minute you stop running.
And the pain has stayed for the last 3 days with no sign of abating.
A visit to the Doctor is pointless. Ribs are not like legs or arms – put them in a cast and there they stay. Ribs are like ribs – sore.
I’m praying that this blog post calls my bluff and that I’m a hypochondriac and not a slightly plumper version of myself this Christmas.
A nice picture of the red sky this morning – it was like the first 20 miles of an ultra marathon -amazing and you know it’ll only get worse from here on in.
Thus it proved, (red sky in the morning, a shepherd’s warning) as it has been raining crappy ice-cold rain since.