Marathon woman
Weeks to go 8 (!), miles run 17 (v. slightly better), 8 st 7, injuries 1, unnecessary exacerbations of pre-existent injuries by inconsiderate prats 1
Monday No run today. Much work.
Tuesday Full of good intentions, set off on run. No further than 13 mins in when disaster strikes. Ankle suddenly twists sideways on sloping bit of pavement. Aargh! Pain excruciating. Limp feebly to side of pavement and grab foot in futile attempt to stop pain, which sweeps over self in overwhelming tide, which, like many other things, makes self feel quite euphoric. Take this as sign that really am v. badly hurt. Visions of failure start to run through head: withdrawing from marathon, having to rename column 'injured woman' and use it to recite oh-so-hilarious yarns of life in the 'no stars' John Radcliffe, having to spend weeks lying on back with one leg suspended in air while muscles atrophy... Soon becomes clear, however, that foot not broken and can manage to hobble home.
Wednesday Cannot resist whinging at everyone about still v. painful ankle, now swollen. Attempts to walk resemble those of woman wearing one glass stiletto and one oversized plimsoll. Lopsided gait especially problematic on stairs, necessitating tentative steps sideways in order to negotiate awkward corners while keeping ankle straight. Begin to wish had not chosen third storey room (not for first time: beginnings and ends of term always involve self -and mum- batting eyelids at every passing male in hope that they will agree to shift suitcases up stairs). No run today.
Thursday Meet up with Esther for run. Consider cancelling, as in bed attempting sleep and ankle still painful, but her phone is off, so am obliged to keep arrangement and put ankle to test. Manage to run for whole hour and half. Ankle coping well. Sky beginning to show hints of being a colour other than mucky grey. Ducks frolicking gaily in river. Life is sweet.
Friday ...Except when one has tutorial at 12 and has done no work, so must rise at 5am. And when one has also arranged to meet training partner #3 (name: Alex, occupation: sometime OUCCC runner, so is much better than self) to go running at 10.30am. And then when one must go to London to see boyfriend, and go out with all his mates to, of all places, the Purple Turtle (Camden branch), and then watch boyfriend drunkenly simulate sex with mate #1 on top of post box on Camden High Street, and then try and sleep on mate #1's sofa while boyfriend wrestling mates #1, 2 and 3 on floor until wee hours. Sooo tired...
Saturday Take opportunity to sleep while mate #1 cooking breakfast and snuggle up with boyfriend in bed. Unfortunately, sleep rudely and abruptly cut short by mate #2, who, in bizarre display of male mock-homoeroticism, leaps onto bed to try and wrestle boyfriend. And lands squarely on my foot. Bad foot, of course, which is thereafter v. painful. However, mate #2 later falls v. amusingly out of tree on Hampstead Heath. Ha hah ahahahah! V. funny.
Sunday Sleepzzzzzzzzz........
Time is 'running' out, so email marathonwoman@oxfordstudent.com
21st Feb 2002