Non-runners: Just read a book or catch up on your writing. There is always next year.
Runners: Oh crisis. Crisis. Can you swim? How soon can you aqua-jog? Try another specialist. Try 4 other specialists. Maybe if you turn the X-Ray upside down and squint at it… See a Sangoma? Maybe if someone holds you around the waist and you just move your arms and legs in the pool? Can I bring wine? Definitely get out of Cape Town for Oceans weekend. I will help you pack. Hang upside down twice a day whilst drinking green tea and honey. Do you need a hug? Is Q still alive? Should we build him a bomb shelter? How long… Did they say how long…? Hide your running shoes girlfriend.
It’s not funny yet, so I’m not sure why I feel compelled to write about it. Perhaps because through this word purge I might feel marginally less inclined to throw a 2 year old tantrum or burn the antique chair currently staring at me in my bedroom. I’m in bed at 8am on a Tuesday, during Oceans taper week, and I’m propped up on pillows with a doughnut pillow under my bum. My broken bum. I’m not happy.
I fell off that damn chair on Friday. As I fell forward it fell towards me and a part of it, I haven’t really established the details of that yet but it is unimportant because the whole chair is going to burn, caught my tailbone. The impact was sufficient that it displaced the bottom digits of my coccyx and left me in the kind of pain that had me hankering after final stage labour. A busted ass.
Of course once the nausea had subsided and I had stopped biting down on the towel that was, thankfully, dropped on to the bedroom floor that morning, I got up and did the “runners are invincible” thing, carrying on with my day like my tail wasn’t sitting all skew and my running goals weren’t about to come crashing down like war shrapnel in a bombed out village. Dramatic enough for you? My fiancé is hiding from me in the kitchen, I can’t imagine why.
By the end of Friday I had to face facts. I couldn’t move my legs to drive and the pain was just getting worse. Went for x-rays on Saturday morning and I’m now in an intimate relationship with this doughnut cushion. Oceans is off, and I can’t see how I will get to Comrades but I have not given up on that yet.
Or maybe I have. Maybe I’ll just take up knitting or chess and forget the big running dreams. Can you feel the endorphins being shut off all cold turkey-like?