The exercise-ist

Bless me father. I'm making some progress at last. I know you'd want to know.  Two sports massages banked and stretching every day peppered with gym or swimming is sorting me out. No hills yet, mind. 

I felt goodish as I lined up at the Elder Park run on Saturday. I happened to have a social in Glasgow over the weekend and with it being such a beautiful morning, I took the clockwork orange into Govan and walked to the Park with Alma from Reigate. From her accent she sounded Australian, but I didn't want to ask. As I warmed up, Chris Upson appeared from out of the early Spring foliage. I wasn't phased, however. I had to run my own race and wanted a sub 23, and was probably up to a sub22 given that there are no hills on this course. Right enough, I clocked 21 minutes and left the park smartly with a spring in my step. It was a fancy lunch from one till 5pm at Exchange Square. The meal was first class and the company entertaining. I gave myself a high-five, keeping away from the alcohol. I even elected for a mocktail at the Blue Dog as the gang took up the back of the bar. We left around 7pm and I celebrated by making a whistle stop visit to The Griffin, a pub which on another visit, I will have a proper mans pint of frothing ale. 

Making the most of the weekend, I breakfasted on Sunday on scrambled egg and tea. We mosied along the streets to Glasgow Green for the 10k. Marg was doing the 5k. It was drizzling and the organisers had taken 40 quid off us for the experience, promising a medal at the end. I bridle at the cost of some of these things.

It was cool and grey as I mashed up and around the park, clocking 21 minutes again for the first 5k. Having not done 6 miles since December I worked hard on maintaining my old mans shuffle during the second half of the event but slowed to a 23 minute second half. As I turned the final corner, the large coffee I had had at McDonalds made itself known and exited in a fashion that reminded me of the exorcist, even as I was gagging for air and trying not to let my head swivel round so much. Hopefully the blokey at the end with the camera failed to capture this caffeine projectile art installation and, by the time I got to the finish, in a touch under 45 minutes, I had got it back together and was smiling, albeit with brown teeth, watery eyes and a snotty nose. I know, I know, too much information. We didn't need the priest after all! It was back to the hotel for a shower and the train south. What a palavar.    

Start Me Up

After failing to shake off my calf/achilles strain, I have at last acquiesced and been to see a physio. I crossed her palm with silver and, right enough, after a laying-on of hands, she recommended 3 exercises, more swimming and yoga... 'the start of the running career could be initiated after a trip for a sports massage' she said. I am not opposed to more squeezy oily muscle business particularly given my inertia on the stretching front. More silver will need to be delivered into yet another set of slippery expert hands. However, its a bit like going to the doctors (except that you can get to actually see a physio and sports masseur). Once you've been diagnosed your brain tells you you're already half way to recovery and hopes rise. 

I came away from the physio via the Cook and Barker at Newton for an expensive fish n' chip lunch, because I'm worth it; and a little bit fishy. 

Its been back to the gym over the last few days. Being an old fogey, I struggle with the choice of canned music.  I will have to get spotify and a pair of over large headphones like half the folk in the gym. Having thrown the dice into the ring for Ben Lomond, I'd love to be up and jogging in my baggy trousers next weekend. Madness I know. There's a lot of work to do between here and Snowdon where I want to make sure I'm not squeezed off the M60 podium again.  Its all about the gun time with this race, not about the chip time!  The other target is a continental mountain race...well, I can dream.  

In other news I have, at last, finished 'the Bookseller of Inverness' by S.G. Maclean. I enjoyed the setting and it was competent enough, but the story meandered rather too much and it wasn't a page turner for me. I've moved on to 'Smut' by Alan Bennett.

Jura no more

Its been a good wee while since I last put my thoughts down on record. After a routine blood test motivated by nothing more than age and gender, I found myself dealing with a 'medical' which has now been, thankfully, sorted. My recovery is, in no small way, a result of terrific expertise within the health service, not to mention supervision from Mrs Mac who excels in this arena. I am indebted. But its safe to say my fitness is taking a while to return. While I have reduced my parkrun time in the last 3 weeks from 27 minutes to 23 minutes, I am still lacking motivation to lace up the trainers. I have been swimming again though, which is something positive at least. 

Jura has always been up there on the to-do list. I filled in the form early January and subsequently found myself on the reserve list for this 18 miler. Its 5000m of ascent. A day or two later I was invited to run. A dilemma. I wavered between paying the fifty quid and convincing myself that the calf injury would resolve itself by May, and, then, conversely, staring at the screen and realising that it probably wouldn't.  So last night I declined the invite and will look for other pastures to make my comeback on. The calf seems happy enough on the flat, but faced with some proper gradient, it goes all William Tell and I'm left to hobble back to base. There is nothing else for it than to go and see someone and I will look around for a running shamen of repute to allow me to regain last years form. Given the above, I shouldn't be too hard on myself and might try a low profile race this weekend, should any take my fancy. Alternatively, I might just continue taking the tiles off the bathroom in preparation for the new bath. Nice to have choices. What excitement!