Crocked

- and am I ever fed up about it...

That pain in the ankle that appeared on my last run? I optimistically assumed that it would be like the foot-down-a-pothole equivalent a couple of weeks before. A couple of days off and it would be fine. Well, it wasn't.

That was Wednesday. By Friday I was still limping as though somebody had kicked me hard on the right ankle-bone. No visible bruising, but very sore. OK, I won't run today. Or Saturday.

Sunday it seemed a bit easier, and Kim was available to try out a new local route that would include a few hills in places, round Thorpe Marriott. At first it seemed OK - a bit annoying, but nothing worse than I've run through before. However, by about the mile-and-a-half point, it was at oh, b*gger levels. We stopped, stretched, walked a bit, ran a bit more - and I had to give up and hobble to rest. So I had done 1.75 miles (plus a further half-mile of walking & hobbling) - when my training distance at the moment is a proud average of 4.5 miles.

We went back home, out came the frozen peas and the bandages for the RICE treatment (if you're wondering, this is a bit of runner's parlance that I've only just learned: Rest-Ice-Compress-Elevate). And a glass of wine. And an ibuprofen.

I'm amazed at two things. One is that the distance I managed before giving up - 1.75 miles - felt REALLY short; but for months it was my regular training distance.

The other is how deeply it's depressed me. During the run, every other bit of me - calves, thighs, CV, the lot - was raring to go, and I so wanted to have my run. And I couldn't. I could've cried. Well, I did a bit. The frustration is unbelievable.

So it's back to work at the computer for the next couple of days - but we're planning a gym session on Monday night that doesn't involve the ankles...