The Day After The Race - In Praise Of Neoprene

Well, we did it. Daughter Number Two and I both finished the Royal Parks Half Marathon, she in rather more style than I. All in all a great experience but not without the usual slings and arrows of outrageous fortune for the accident-prone Big Fat Pig.

My ten day taper for the event brought with it a cold, the after-effects of which are still with me. Not ideal but perfectly manageable. Much worse was an injury most curiously acquired. Last Friday I attended with a selection of old rugby buddies a sporting lunch at Veseyans Rugby Club - a club for whom I bear an affection even though the ignominy of my sole sending-off came against them. Because I have been on the wagon in preparation for the race, I had taken nothing more damaging than two pints of water at our rendezvous, the Three Tuns, when I essayed the short walk to the car park. It was at this innocent juncture that I felt the top of the bloody right calf muscle ping. I was only walking and not a drop of alcohol had passed my lips. Honest.

Now that I have got through it, it is safe to admit that in normal circumstances I would have stayed off the roads for at least a week in an effort to get over the injury. Bluntly however I was not giving way to this bloody upset, not after the training and the commitment to Rachel. So I delved into my collection of bandages and neoprene and devised a scheme to suffocate the strain under a neoprene elbow bandage, a bandage chosen to give more support than is I suppose recommended. Thus accoutered I set forth on Sunday and all went well enough for the first five miles, up in fact to the point where I passed the cheering Groupie and Daughter Number One. This was around Trafalgar Square and I even accepted a high five from a small child in the crowd. Rookie mistake, because as I left the Square I felt the familiar shooting pain in the lower portion of the right calf - the very site of my commonest injury. I stopped briefly, stretched and carried on. This wasn't working so on the Mall I slowed again and made a tactical decision - the neoprene had to be relocated at the locus of the new strain. Adrenaline would have to cope with the upper calf tear. Long story short, I got away with it and shuffled to the finish for an emotional reunion with Daughter Number Two who had finished twenty minutes earlier and returned to the finish line to look out for her old man. Between us we have raised fifteen hundred pounds for mental health charities and done wonders for our own self-esteem. You can't buy moments like that.

Can you see me?

You may recall my slightly jaundiced recollection of the London Marathon which a rather less fat pig did aeons ago. Well this was way better. Fabulous crowds and no dehydration this time, nor was the bloke in the rhino costume there to prove my nemesis in a sprint finish - I guess he had probably finished much earlier. If anything I had over-hydrated this time and had to take a call of nature at seven miles (don't worry I used the public toilets) so this was still not the perfect competitive run. Certainly I had runner better (and indeed further) in my last long training run but all in all I felt distinctly well-disposed to the world. A world that felt even more accommodating when I was reunited with alcohol by means of a glass of Pol Roger chez Daughter Number One, before I enjoyed the most welcome shower I can recall. Therafter it was on to pub and later restaurant to wallow in beer and a lobster dinner with  my absolute favourite people, The Groupie and Daughters Numbers One and Two. Late train home and still with the daft grin on my face. The calf muscle is shredded and I can barely walk today but when all is said and done this has been a worthwhile venture. Would I do it again? Ask me in a few weeks' time.