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.
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