It was only a short run, that early morning at St Ives, up and down the hilly back streets of the slowly waking town. And perhaps the stretches afterwards were too vigorous and I sat in the car too long that day. But by then another injury had happened to my legs. That was four years ago and apart from the odd twinge everything was fine for years until the last long practice run before my half-marathon the other week when it returned. It’s funny how the memory plays tricks.
Ask most people if they have ever injured themselves and the answer will be yes, the symptoms memorable, perhaps the cause. But ask them when and how long they took to recover and things get vague. I’m not quite sure what causes this vagueness – maybe because recovery is often a slow unremarkable process, maybe it feels wrong to dwell on a time when the body was weak, or maybe it is better to remember times of triumph than times of discomfort or defeat. Or maybe the modern busy lives we lead, with memories overlaying memories makes it difficult to recall – after all I had to check which year it was we went to Cornwall, though particular scenes are still vivid in my memory.
There are countless streams of advice on the best treatment for injuries and a whole industry makes money from helping people recover, but I wonder if this forgetting, this amnesia is really helpful. Maybe if we were more able to recall the weeks of recovery and times of discomfort we would hold back when the old twinges, the old tell-tale signs emerge? It’s good at times to test the body, to push ourselves, but there is a fine line to be drawn between strength-training and future injury.
And so I am sitting in the sunshine in the Ettrick valley with my dodgy hamstring, physio exercises ready to pick up again and hoping it won’t hinder a summer of munro-bagging. One thing is for sure, I will by autumn have put my name down for next year’s half-marathon. After all, I do have that two-hour target to beat.
Auld Reekie Old Runner 2015 