Basta!

My old running mate Gavin Jones is a sensible chap. A few years back I cajoled the old boy back into the sport after too long in the wilderness; he ended up winning the World Masters V50 marathon title in Sacramento in 2011 and has rewritten all Ranelagh's V50 records.  He even ran a 100km race, on a whim (!), this year "because he'd never done one before and he wanted to know what it was like".

None of the above sounds that sensible but he's now seen the light: Gavin lives in Rome; Basta in Italian means 'enough is enough'.  Over the last few years, the pair of us have been swapping messages about the ravages of time and how our bodies are breaking down.  We've had remarkably similar ailments: Achilles, adductors, abdomen (the good old AAA's).  I keep trying to make comebacks; he's made one and is now packing up his racing shoes for good (or so he says).  As I say, what a sensible chap.

I am not sensible, if I was then Basta would be in my vocabulary by now and I would be on the golf course.  With immense patience - certainly more than Roman Abramovich ever reveals - my training has been built up very carefully over the last 18 months: just small incremental increases in weekly mileage; no speedwork; good warm-up/down with each run; regular stretching and specific exercises etc.  It brought results, with a modicum of race fitness returning, but it couldn't last ...

Despite a prevailing ache in my Achilles, there was a mob match to be run just before Christmas.  I turned up at a very sodden Richmond Park, started very slowly alongside Andy Bickerstaff who was complaining of one of his worrying irregular heart rate episodes - makes my problems banal in the extreme - and started to enjoy the run.  Sadly, Andy called it a day early on (Basta!) but I ploughed on, picking off faster starters despite two weeks of idleness ahead of the race, and without putting in any effort.  My only aim was to get round, time and position were irrelevant.

With less than two miles to go I was cruising along in contemplation of my imminent first pint of London Pride at The Roebuck on Richmond Hill, when suddenly I felt what seemed like a stone had been hurled at the back of my ankle.  My Achilles had 'popped'.  I had no choice but to walk to the finish, or rather limp, stopping at each deep, cold puddle to immerse my ankle in the icy depths.

My fear was a partial rupture, such was the intensity of the initial 'pop' and ensuing pain, but my trusted and experienced physio in Cirencester, Helen Hall, examined me carefully and was convinced that it's only a scar tissue problem that should be sorted by ultrasound, deep massage, Kinesio tape and heel raise work plus some steady exercise bike work to maintain general fitness.  Three weeks down the line, my mileage for 2013 stands at zero but I have completed 150km on my bike, burning off a lot of the Christmas excess.  I'm certainly a lot more comfortable walking around and might even try to jog for five minutes in a week or two.

Next is Blackheath's tough course, can I get round?

And so the process starts again ... 

So who is the sensible one: Gavin or Wrighty?